Random Variables and Heuristic Solutions
by Lisa Paris
Summary: Misunderstandings and missed telephone calls create big problems for Don and Charlie.
1. Chapter 1

**Random Variables and Heuristic Solutions**

**Disclaimer -** I own no fractions, atoms or particles of Numb3rs. I really wish I owned Don.

**Category -** A Season One story which deals with misunderstandings, both human and cosmic, and several missed telephone calls. Told mainly from a Don POV – but some other variables are factored in.

This story was posted a while ago on the Forum. It's early days - set in Season One.

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Part One

**Random Variable Numb3r One _(FBI Offices Los Angeles, Day One 4.00pm)_**

Don Eppes switched off his computer and watched as the screen went black. It was still only four in the afternoon. He still had plenty of time. Plenty of time to get home and take a shower before he had to be at this thing of Charlie's. He smiled ruefully and ran his hand under his collar, across the back of his neck. To his surprise, he wasn't viewing tonight as some kind of terrible ordeal. This week, the gods had been kind to him, granting five days of relative calm. He acknowledged he'd needed it badly, had needed the respite and sleep. It was hard to keep tabs on the bad guys when your body was drained with exhaustion. Tough to maintain a competent façade when you felt slow and clumsy with fatigue.

The week had been good from a catching-up point of view, but bad on the excuses front. There was no handy hiding behind the job to get out of awkward situations. His couch and a cold beer beckoned alluringly but he was honour-bound to go out tonight. His brother, Dr Charles Eppes, the mathematics prodigy, was about to become a media star. Charlie had been invited to participate in a pre-recorded TV discussion. It would eventually be shown on the Discovery Channel. _'Yup - this sucker was gonna pull in the viewers.'_ Something to do with Einstein and the true geometry of space.

'_A bunch of crazy mathematicians arguing about geometry.' _

Or so he'd grumbled teasingly to Charlie. How the hell did he get talked into these things?

'_Perhaps, because historically, he'd missed out on way too many of them.' _

He'd always had a good reason not to go. A plausible excuse why he couldn't make it. Quantico, Fugitive Recovery, a heavy, case-load in Albuquerque. If he was honest, he'd been relieved. The FBI had always absolved him. Working for the Federal Government was the greatest excuse of all. There'd been another time when he'd meant to come home, but fate had decided against it. A random bullet had grazed his skull and he'd been flat on his back for a week. Too dizzy to lift his head from the pillow, let alone catch a plane to California. No one in his family had known about that one – _there was no point creating unnecessary fuss_ – no point in stealing Charlie's thunder. He'd made some lame-sounding apologies and pretended not to hear their disappointment.

'_Well, there were no more reasons and no more excuses_,' a small voice whispered in his ear. He'd failed to attend most of Charlie's past triumphs. He simply hadn't been there.

'_This time,'_ Don mused, _'it would be different.' _The circumstances were different, or maybe they were different men. Things had been better between them of late. Easier. Kinder and more healing. For some weird, particular reason, this evening was mega-important to Charlie. He been pretty hyped-up about it, obsessing over the details all week. A small smile played at the corner of Don's mouth. '_Hell, he could suffer an hour of geometry.'_ This time, he wouldn't let his brother down.

"Hey," Terry Lake stood beside him, her soft voice breaking into his reverie. "Shouldn't you be on your way?"

"Just going." Don got to his feet and reached for his suit jacket. His smile widened good-humouredly at her. "Sure you won't come along for the ride - the chance to be on TV? You never know who might be watching, it could be your big break." He added an incentive. "Charlie made a reservation at Salvo's for eight-thirty. Larry and Amita will be there."

"I won't get my break on the Discovery Channel," Terry shook her head at him. She pretended to consider, as they finished collecting up their things. "Salvo's is tempting, especially if you're paying. But I have a date with Mister Darcy. Pride and Prejudice on DVD. Colin Firth, a pizza and an early night. I've been looking forward to it all day. Besides, I'd hate to distract you from all the _crazy mathematicians_."

"Nice," Don's voice was dry.

He nodded good-bye to Sinclair and followed her out of the bullpen. A pizza and DVD-fest at Terry's sounded infinitely more appealing than an hour-long Mathematics debate. Even if it meant putting up with the tangled love-lives of Jane Austen's, Nineteenth Century, English gentry. He could drink some beer and fall asleep on the sofa with no one to nag or make a fuss. For a moment, all his good intentions wavered, but then he pictured Charlie's face. They made it as far as the doorway before Merrick called out both their names.

"Agent Eppes, Agent Lake," the Assistant Director's voice was abrupt. "I hope you haven't made plans for this evening? I'm calling an emergency briefing on that missing arms shipment. We've just received some new Intel. It looks like they're bringing them in tonight. You have fifteen minutes to assemble your team. I'll see you up in the War Room."

"Damn," Don looked at Terry, ruefully. "Guess the crazy mathematicians will have to wait."

* * *

**Random Variable Numb3r two _(Federal Armoured Vehicle, Day One 6.30pm)_**

"No luck?"

Terry tightened the waist-straps on Don's body armour and watched as he tried his phone again. She pulled the Velcro as tight as it would go, so no bullet could rip through his chest. She'd once seen an agent get shot beneath the armpit, a random, unlucky strike. His vest had been thrown on loosely and too carelessly in the heat of an anticipated raid. The bullet had ricocheted its way to his heart, skating patterns off his ribs like a dancer. The memory would never leave her. She had been the one assigned to tell his wife.

"Thanks. No." He nodded as she finished, a slight frown edging his voice. "I'm guessing he left his cell at home in case it rang in the studio. Not that its much use when he_ does_ bother to carry it - he either puts it down someplace or forgets to turn the damn thing on."

"Your dad?"

He raised an eyebrow at her, a small smile relaxing his face. "You think?"

She grinned back and adjusted her ear-piece. "Point taken. All you can do is leave them a message, and send your apologies. They both know the nature of your job, Don. I'm sure Charlie will understand."

"Yeah, right. Right." Don popped a piece of cinnamon gum and put it into his mouth. His fingers crumpled the empty packet into a tight little ball. The gum was a ritual born of long years of habit, as routine as checking his gun. The Don Eppes, patent stress reliever - even if it made his dental bills soar.

"Charlie'll understand." He sighed, and flipped the phone again. "Guess there's one more place to try. _Yeah, hello, Salvo's? Good evening. I'd like to leave a message. Eppes party – table booked for 8.30 . . ."_

* * *

**Random Variable Numb3r Three _(Salvo's Italian Restaurant Day One, 6.45pm)_**

Even though it was relatively early, the restaurant was fully booked. Friday night in downtown LA and everybody ate out. The telephone rang constantly as latecomers tried to reserve tables. Soon the note-pad was filled with memos, names and numbers to call. The receptionist took down a hurried message for a booking, name of Eppes. One of their party was not going to make it - working late - he sent his apologies. She ran her finger over the page until she found the name.

_Table 7, reserved for 8.30 pm._ They had obviously not arrived yet. She put the piece of paper in her pocket and made a mental note not to forget it.

Already the phone was ringing again and her migraine was getting worse. She'd taken two tablets an hour ago, but they didn't seem to be having much effect. Twenty minutes later, and she knew the game was up. The smell of food was making her sick. She couldn't see to write or make reservations. The glitter curtain had started to fall. It was time to risk the wrath of her boss and call a cab to take her home. Friday night and they were fully booked . . . the manager was going to be pissed . . . but her head was really banging. There was no way she'd last the shift.

_'Hell, all she really wanted to do, was crawl into bed and die.'_

By the time she left the restaurant, the piece of paper was still in her pocket. She leant her head back in the taxi, and closed her eyes in relief. She had forgotten all about table 7 - Don Eppes - or passing-on any message. At long last, her tablets were having an effect, and numbing her poor aching head.

* * *

**Random Variable Numb3r Four _(Freight and Shipping Warehouse, Dry Bulk Terminal, Port of Los Angeles Day One, 8.30pm)_**

The Intel had been good for once. This time, there was no mistake. The arms had been unloaded in shipping containers, brought into the country on a Panamanian Freighter for buyers with terrorist links. It could have gone down one of several ways, but Don wanted the man in charge of the sale. The bastard pocketing the money, here in the USA. There was the usual rush of adrenalin as he watched the negotiations taking place, all of his nerve-endings on hyper-charge whilst his face remained calm and set in stone. Only the ubiquitous gum betrayed he was on alert.

There were two heavily armed goons with the seller, plus a couple of swarthy sailors. Don wouldn't mind betting they were packing as well, although there was no visual sign of weapons. A truck backed into the open warehouse and four more men arrived. There was no question of doubt they were carrying, the deal was going down. His players were all in position – the entrances and exits covered. SWAT teams and tacticals all in place, with his own team taking point. There was only two ways his targets were leaving tonight - a body bag or a prisoner transport vehicle.

"All right," Don placed a hand up to his ear piece and nodded briefly at Terry. He watched as the seller used an iron crowbar to open up one of the crates. Training his night-vision binoculars onto the sample contents, Don surveyed the deadly wares with a quick, assessing sweep.

_RPG's and automatic weapons. A veritable candy-store for terrorists._

"That's it. We have them." It was a wrap. "Confirm the deal is going down - arms deal going down. Nine targets on visual, I repeat, at least nine targets. Assume all heavily armed. I want the seller alive, if possible. Let's get this over and done."

Another nod of affirmation at Terry as Don slipped the safety catch off his gun. He used her clear gaze to anchor him, as he mentally prepared for what was coming. The adrenalin rush was like ice in his veins, his mind cool, and remarkably detached. There it was, that word again. _Detached . ._ . _detached . . . detached._ Charlie had flung it at him once. _'His own brother thought he was detached.'_ It had made him immeasurably angry, and more than a little bit hurt. He'd been described as a_ hard-assed, bastard,_ on more than one occasion. Hard–assed, stubborn and uncompromising. Words which were not all that complimentary, but somehow, they were better than detached.

This was not the time to ponder his choices or relationships. Not the time to deal with his pain. There would be sufficient opportunities later on, in the darkness of his apartment. Plenty of nightmares and unwanted thoughts. Don knew of old, they always came.

"Okay," he focused sharply on the targets in front of him. Pin-pointed his mind on the raid. "Everyone ready, on my order. Counting down - three - two - one!"

He moved out, around the SUV, already up and running. His gun held forward in both his hands as the bust got underway.

* * *

**Random Variable Numb3r Five _(Freight and Shipping Warehouse, Dry Bulk Terminal, Port of Los Angeles Day One, 8.45pm)_**

Don knew he'd fucked-up big time when he skidded around the corner. He was too far ahead of Terry and temporarily alone. Intent on taking out the seller, he'd compromised his own safety. There was no sign of the target he'd been chasing, but no-where left for the middle man to go. He took another, cautionary step, before he realised he'd made a mistake. A flicker on the periphery of his vision, and the iron bar struck him hard across his back.

White stars exploded in front of his eyes as he fell to his knees on the ground. He barely had time to roll out of the way before the middle man aimed for his head.

"No!"

Don raised an arm and ducked to one side as the crowbar crashed down on his shoulder. His weapon went skittering across the ground, useless and out of reach. There was a horrible, ominous cracking of bone, as his gun-arm was rendered useless. He was face-down on the concrete, and cursing his arrant stupidity. Trying to fight off the waves of pain as the middle man raised the iron bar again.

"Freeze – do not move!" It was Terry's voice, strident and taut with control. "Do not move. Step right away from the agent, and place your weapon down slowly!"

Don sensed his attacker's indecision, the hesitation rolling off him in waves. If the iron bar came down on his head, he didn't give a rat's ass for his chances. He rolled onto his back and looked up at the man – at the desperate intent in his eyes. "There's two ways you're leaving this crime scene, pal. In cuffs or a body bag. Put down the bar or she'll blow you away. Your choice, it's up to you."

"Drop the bar carefully. Get down on the ground. On your face – down on the ground!" Terry stepped in a little closer, her grip on the gun unwavering. "Do it now!"

Don felt the shift in the middle man's stance, and knew he was in big trouble. Terry shouted out a warning before the bar swung down towards his skull. Don pushed himself sideways, despite the pain in his shoulder, and felt it graze the side of his ear. He heard the bark of Terry's gun, three shots in immediate succession, and then the heavy clank of the crowbar as it clattered onto the concrete. The man's body fell across him, cumbersome and already slumped in death. For a second, Don lay there and closed his eyes before finally taking a deep breath.

"You all right?" It was Terry, on her knees beside him. Her fingers had already reached for his throat and the reassurance of a pulse. She tracked the blood running down the side of his neck. "Don, did he hit you with that?"

Don heaved himself up and away from the corpse, pulling back from her hand. "It's okay. I'm fine – just a nick on my ear. He got me across the shoulder." He flexed his arm and swallowed hard. "I think I heard my collarbone crack."

She continued to look at him, steadily, her face a little pale. "I lost you for a couple of seconds. You left yourself wide open to attack. First rule of any pursuit, Don, always cover your partner's back." She gestured over towards the middle-man's body. "I had no option. It was him or you."

"Yeah," he shifted up, carefully, onto his knees and ignored the protesting bones and muscles. "Damn it, I wanted him, Terry. I'm sorry. This was my fault."

Don closed his eyes briefly in anger and frustration. He was furious with himself. It was due to his own stupid error the seller was lying here dead. His fault, they'd lost an opportunity to question him and break the arms ring wide open. Don ran his good hand over his face. He cursed himself for such a rookie blunder. In his eagerness to take this slime-ball down, a solid chance had been squandered.

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

**Random Variables and Heuristic Solutions**

**Part Two**

**Random Variable Numb3r Six _(Salvo's Italian Restaurant Day One, 10.30pm)_**

Alan Eppes sighed, and regarded his son across the top of his wine glass. Charlie became as tense as a wire each time the restaurant door opened. Salvo's was a popular place to eat and the stream of human traffic was fairly constant, but in-spite of his edgy vigilance, there was no sign of the one face Charlie sought.

"He's not coming, is he?"

Alan looked down at his wrist-watch again. The lateness of the hour confirmed his younger son's words. "No, Charlie, its half past ten. I don't think Don's coming now. It's a shame you left your cell phone at home, he might have tried to leave us a message."

"He should have left us a message here. You said you checked at the front desk . . . you _did_ check with the manager?"

"Yes, Charlie, I checked."

"Don knew this was important to me," Charlie's voice was low and filled with hurt. "It's been a quiet week, he said so himself. His work-rate's been unusually light. He's not even involved with a specific case, there's no logical reason he wouldn't show." His face set. "I knew he didn't really want to come, he said so when I asked him. _No offence, Charlie, but a whole hour's worth of crazy mathematicians, arguing about geometry . . . _those were the precise words he used."

Alan sighed again, he couldn't help it. Charlie's manner did not bode well. "There must be an explanation. He was probably held up at the office. Don knew tonight was important to you, and in-spite of his patent lack of enthusiasm regarding Non-Euclidean geometry, I'm pretty sure he wouldn't let you down." He made an attempt to lighten things and gestured down at his plate of food. "Besides, even if he couldn't make the recording studio, he knew we'd booked a table for eight-thirty. You know your brother, Charlie. He's very fond of the seafood linguini."

"There's always something." Charlie sounded bitter. "Something always comes up. A case, some vital paperwork, a briefing he can't get out of. It was the same when he went to Quantico - when he worked on fugitive recovery. As for Albuquerque, we hardly heard from him at all. It wasn't until mom got sick, Don remembered he had a family."

"Charlie," Alan shifted uncomfortably in his chair and looked apologetically at Larry and Amita. "This isn't the time or place. We were_ all_ at busy points in our lives, a lot was happening then. You were off studying all over the world, Princeton, Oxford and Europe. Half the time, your mom travelled with you. It was rare for anyone to be at home. I was trying to wrap-up the business for good, _and_ sort out my retirement . . . there was so much going-on at that time. It wasn't always easy for your brother."

Charlie shook his head, angrily. "And Don's never forgiven me for that. Not that he'll come right out and say it, of course, but the inference of blame is always there. He punishes us by pulling away. By quietly withdrawing from our lives. It would be nice, _if just once,_ he could have made some time, to fit us into his busy schedule. Nice if he actually bothered to turn-up. I thought things were changing between us. He's never graced any one of my awards. Throughout the whole of my academic life, Don's never been there for me."

* * *

**Random Variable Numb3r Seven _(FBI Offices, Los Angeles Day One, 11.30pm)_**

"What did the EMT's say about your shoulder?" Terry came into the bullpen and placed a coffee on the desk in front of him.

"Thanks." Don frowned at his computer screen, before clicking the mouse on _'save.'_ He turned his chair around to face her. "Probably just a cracked collarbone and a little soft-tissue bruising. Trust me, its fine, almost nothing really. I had worse when I was playing baseball. No active fieldwork for a couple of weeks, then I'll have to re-up my gun. They can't do anything for it, but there shouldn't be any problems."

He didn't bother mentioning he'd declined the EMT's advice. They had suggested he visit the Emergency Room and get himself properly checked-out. There was no time – it wasn't necessary. He'd cracked a collarbone in the past.

Terry stared pointedly at the discarded sling beside him and raised her eyebrows a fraction. She knew him well enough by now to realise he was playing it down. There was a neat row of butterfly stitches closing the cut on his ear, but with Don's habit of raking his hands through his hair, she didn't fancy their long-term chances.

Don swallowed a mouthful of hot coffee, glad of the caffeine hit. He ignored her unspoken enquiry and offered a short explanation. "Can't type with my arm in a sling and I need to finish-up this report." He paused, and pinched the top of his nose, suddenly overwhelmed with fatigue. "How the hell do I dress this one up? Five out of nine men taken alive, three of whom only speak Arabic. Hard to figure if tonight was a screw-up, or rate it as a partial success."

"We recovered the arms and cut the links in the chain – took out the middle-man. Whatever they were planning, they'll have to put it on hold. We delayed or averted an attack." She shot him a small smile. "Sounds like a success to me."

Don nodded, feeling suddenly tired. "Right. Right - I really hope so. We've been working far too long on this to have things mess up now." He looked up at her wryly. "I gotta tell you, Merrick isn't exactly ecstatic I lost the chance to interrogate the middle-man."

"What about the other interrogations?" Terry read some of the report over his shoulder, careful not to lean in too close.

"I'll have a crack at the lead buyer tonight. See if I can shake him down. The others can wait until morning – we'll need to get hold of a translator."

"I'll see to it. Don't worry about Merrick – you know he'll take any reason he can to give you a hard time. Drink your coffee . . . oh, and you'll be needing this." She picked-up the discarded shoulder-brace and placed it into his lap. "Have you taken anything for the pain yet?"

"I found some Vicodin stashed away in my desk – was prescribed them for an old injury." Don grimaced ruefully at her. Both of them were fully aware their night was still in its infancy. "I'll take two later, when I get back to Dad's . . . Charlie's house. They should help me get some sleep."

Terry studied him carefully and refrained from any comment on the pain-relief. She could understand his reasoning, even if she didn't particularly like it. Don was an excellent interrogator with a very high rate of success. He liked to control every aspect of the interview from the minute he stepped into the room. Every play, every bluff, every verbal bear-trap, he was always in command of the game. Terry knew he felt responsible for losing the dealer and any valuable information they might have gleaned from that source. Clouding his acuity with painkillers was not something Don would even contemplate.

She was glad to hear he was going to Charlie's, instead of the solitude of his apartment. The thought of him there, injured and alone, was not conducive to _her _well-being. _Charlie._ She recalled their ruined plans.

"Have you heard anything from Charlie?"

"No." Don sounded uncomfortable. "I've tried once or twice in the last hour or so, but this time, he's not answering his cell. I guess he's a little upset with me for not being there tonight. Can't say I blame him, really. I promised I'd go along."

"He'll understand. He'll get over it. It's not like you had a choice."

"Right." Don knew he didn't sound convinced. He was tired and his shoulder was hurting. There was a grinding pain in his lower back which seemed to be getting worse. He had hours of interrogation in front of him and he hadn't eaten anything since breakfast. He didn't have the luxury of worrying about Charlie; his brother must surely realise that the Bureau had first call on his time.

_So why did he have a gut-feeling it wasn't going to be that simple?_

Don sighed and raked his good hand through his hair, dislodging some of the butterfly stitches. It was hard to ignore the trace of guilt which persisted in nagging away at him. _He_ might not be a _wunderkind_, but he knew tonight had meant a lot to Charlie. It was not just about his genius brother appearing on TV. Charlie had planned the whole evening as a sort of family tribute. At last, Don would be there in person to witness one of his scholarly triumphs.

From the moment a three year old Charlie had started multiplying four digit numbers, his academic brilliance had estranged things between the two of them. It was only now, after the death of his mother, that Don had come to real terms with Charlie's prodigious gift. He was proud of his younger brother's talents, of Charlie's amazing abilities, and also slightly worried they came complete with a double-edged sword.

"Don?"

"Yeah." He focused back on the job in hand, already planning strategies and tactics. "Let's get down to the interview room, see if we can make our buyer talk."

He hooked the shoulder-brace over his head, glad of Terry's help to adjust it, inhaling sharply as his clavicle shifted with a spiteful stab of pain. His whole body protested as he got to his feet, and he was suddenly aware of new bruises.

Don eyed the packet of Vicodin with regret and finished-up the rest of his coffee. There was no chance of respite for him for a while – no painkillers or likelihood of sleep. He'd be lucky to get away much before dawn. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

**Random Variable Numb3r Eight _(Eppes House – Day Two, 4.30am)_**

Don refused to let Terry see him up to the house even though she was worried about him. He'd been glad of her offer to drive him home when they'd eventually called it a night. The interviews had gone surprisingly well, he'd salvaged something useful from the bust – a list of names to investigate and some links to financial backers. It was a damned sight more than he'd expected and enough to keep Merrick quiet. Of course, his team's work-load had multiplied – it was only to be expected. Their recent quiet-spell would be a distant memory over the weeks ahead. With hindsight, Don should have suspected. It was merely the calm before the storm.

Someone had left the porch light on. '_Dad, of course,'_ he smiled, ruefully. It was typical of his father, he must have guessed Don would drop by. It was way too late to apologise for missing Charlie's evening, but at least he would be there in the morning to eat a large slice of humble pie.

Don removed his arm from the shoulder-brace as he fumbled for his keys. Damn, the thing was annoying, it was easier to leave his arm free. Now that Terry had driven off, he shifted it over his head, relieved to eliminate the restrictive pressure on the upper right-hand side of his torso. Besides, his shoulder wasn't bothering him so much, as the sullen ache across the small of his back. The bruises he'd acquired from the first blow of the crowbar had kicked-in with an almighty vengeance.

Just as he slid the key into the lock, he heard the door-handle rattle. He concealed the shoulder-brace under the jacket he carried over his arm. "Dad?" He looked at his father with a frown of concern and a tiny jolt of alarm. "What are you doing up at this time, is everything all right?" He was aware of his father's scrutiny and glad of the dim, amber light. "It's four thirty in the morning. Charlie - is Charlie all right?"

He heard his father sigh. "Well, it depends on your definition of all right. Physically, Charlie's perfectly fine. Although, the way you and your brother define the word _fine,_ is different to the majority of people. I've learned from years of experience, it can often mean anything but."

Don's heart sank. He wasn't in the mood for this now. "Dad, I . . ."

His father ushered him into the house and regarded him more closely. "And while we're on the subject, you're not looking particularly_ fine_ yourself." He shook his head with resignation and gestured at the two remaining butterfly stitches which adorned the ragged tear on Don's ear. "What happened tonight, Don?"

"The stitches? It's nothing, they're nothing. Just picked-up a few bumps and bruises - this little nick on my ear."

Don circled past Alan and moved off into the kitchen. He was determined not to have this conversation now. His body was sore, he felt dog tired, and he couldn't stand the thought of any fuss. He appreciated the fact dad worried about him, but he just wasn't up to dealing with the customary sense of guilt.

_The feeling he was solely to blame for the troubled shadows in his father's eyes._

'_And besides,'_ Don rationalised with himself, '_he hadn't exactly lied.'_ He _had_ picked-up a few bumps and bruises . . . just one or two more than he was prepared to admit. It wouldn't do either of them any good to go on about his injuries tonight. His dad did a great impression of the stereotypical, Jewish momma. Even taking the whole thing down to the obligatory, homemade chicken soup.

Don rolled the shoulder-brace up in his jacket and shoved it on a chair under the dining table. He would come clean about his collar-bone tomorrow when he felt more like facing the music. He should have gone back to his apartment and smoothed things over with Charlie later - should have thought things through properly, before instinctively heading for home. He leant against the counter for a moment and attempted a steadying breath. It was the middle of the night . . . _hell, it was nearly dawn. _All he wanted was to take the damned Vicodin, and rest his weary head down on the sofa.

'_Damn, if only life was as easy as that.'_ Don thought wistfully about sleep. The whole concept seemed so elusive. The old couch was soft and inviting, but first he owed his dad an explanation.

"We received some last minute Intel on a case. Completely out of the blue. The deal was going down tonight – months of hard work and surveillance. I left messages – try the answer machine." Don reached into the refrigerator for a bottle of water, aware he sounded terse. He hoped his account would suffice for now but he really should have known better.

"Messages or no messages," Alan pointedly ignored Don's brusqueness. "Your brother was pretty upset. He wanted things to be special - you know how Charlie is. He's been looking forward to last night for quite some time, to have you see him on that TV panel. He wanted to show-off a little, in front of his older brother."

"Yeah," Don scrubbed at his forehead, jadedly. "I know. I'll speak to him in the morning." He paused, and unscrewed the bottle-cap, the inevitable remorse creeping in. "It's not like I had a choice in the matter, Dad. Charlie knows what I do for a living."

"We're all well aware of what you do for a living." Perhaps because it was late and he was tired, Alan was unable to suppress a hint of bitterness. "Aside from the indigestion and sleepless nights it gives me, just lately, it's been involving both my sons."

Don dropped his eyes, aware he was out-gunned. There was nothing he could really say. Charlie's recent participation in some of his cases gave him more than his own fair share of heartburn and insomnia. He shrugged with resignation and instantly regretted it, sucking in his breath with a hiss of pain.

"What is it?" Alan's tone changed immediately. He stepped up closer into the light to get a better view of his son. "Is it your head, is it the stitches? Looks like you may have lost a few."

"I'll get them replaced in the morning. It's nothing, I'm just a little sore." Don was glad of an excuse to pull away and trade in on his father's concern. It was a coward's way out and he knew it, but if he didn't sit down soon, he might fall. "Look, Dad, I'm sorry about tonight. Believe me, I really am. But I'm tired, I ache and I need to sleep. Can we put this on hold for now?"

"All right, you're right. It'll wait until the morning. You look like you could use some quality rest." Alan shook his head. "And for once, you have the common-sense to come clean about it – I guess the age of miracles isn't dead. I'll cook you breakfast when you wake-up; something tells me you probably haven't eaten since yesterday. You can sort things out with Charlie later. For now, son, get some sleep."

Don heard the disquiet in his father's voice, and knew he must look horribly pale. He felt more than usually exhausted. In the end, it had been a tough day. "Breakfast – yeah. That sounds pretty good." He forced a smile to his lips. "I'm afraid it'll have to be an early one. I gotta get back, first thing."

"Early it is, then."

Alan's tone softened audibly, and Don knew he'd won for the time being. He could almost read his father's mind and sense the sudden shift in the wind. For Don Eppes to actually confess he felt tired was a major admission of weakness. It was a cynical use of the sympathy card and not entirely free of psychology.

'_Sometimes, being known as a 'hard-ass' did have an occasional advantage.'_

Alan's touch was soft on his arm as he steered him through to the staircase. "Go on, there are some clean sweats in your bedroom. I'll make up the bed while you're changing."

"It's okay." Don shook his head at that. "I'll sleep down here, on the couch. I don't want to wake-up Charlie. A quilt and a pillow will do fine. Please, dad," he forestalled any dispute. "I just need to close my eyes."

Normally, Alan would have argued the point and insisted on him taking his old bedroom, but Don looked washed-out, almost drooping with exhaustion, so this time, he merely nodded. "I'll go and fetch them for you."

He took his hand away from Don's arm and watched his son head for the bathroom. A pang of misgiving struck him, a momentary flash of unease. Almost involuntarily, his eyes were drawn to the photograph of _Her_. For a moment there, in the still of the night, Don had looked so much like his mother.

**TBC**

**Lisa Paris - 2006**


	3. Chapter 3

**Random Variables and Heuristic Solutions**

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**Part Three**

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**Random Variable Numb3r Nine _(Eppes House (downstairs) – Day Two, 8.30am)_**

Don awoke with a start of dread and a feeling of trepidation. He lay still for a moment, hazy and bewildered, aware that his heart was racing. The codeine had dulled the pain enough to enable him to get some sleep, but the drug had been a double-edged sword and really fucked-up his dreams. He looked at his watch and swore out loud. He'd overslept – _and how._ He should have been at the office an hour ago. Why the hell hadn't anyone woken him?

His body was taking its time to wake up, coming around with a vengeance. Bruises, bones and abused sets of muscles, all screaming loudly in protest. Don levered himself to the edge of the couch. His shoulder had stiffened awkwardly during the few hours of sleep he'd managed. The clavicle throbbed with a ragged ache, and for a moment, Don wished he'd had the guts to come clean and actually wear the shoulder-brace. He only had himself to blame – it had been stupid of him to come here. Aside from owning-up to an injury, he still had to apologise to Charlie.

Don gave a heavy sigh. _Charlie . . . _

_Talk of the devil._ He became conscious of somebody watching him from the armchair to the right of the sofa. His brother sat there drinking coffee with a brooding look on his face.

"Charlie . . . what the . . . why didn't you wake me? How long have you been sat there?"

"Morning, Don." Charlie's voice was carefully nonchalant. "I see you decided to join us. I suppose we should be grateful for your company. Better late than never, isn't that what they say?" He examined his wrist-watch studiedly. "Fourteen hours, thirty-three minutes and seventeen point five seconds late, to be precise."

Don propped himself on the edge of the couch and swung his legs onto the floor. His gut protested with a lurch of nausea. His vision hazed out for a second. If his stomach hadn't been empty, he would have thrown-up all over the carpet. '_Man – this was the last thing he needed._' Too much caffeine and not enough sleep or food. A reaction to painkillers and bruises.

He choked back a flash of annoyance at Charlie's sarcastic and exact use of time, running his good hand through his flattened hair as he recovered his equilibrium.

"Charlie, about last night . . ."

"Yes, Don, what about it?"

"Look, I'm sorry, buddy. Something unavoidable came up. Some Intel on a deal we've been waiting-on. There was nothing I could do about it. I tried my best to let you know, but I'm guessing your cell was switched off."

"Sure. Don't worry about it. It's very clear your work comes first. Dad and I understand."

"Wait a minute, Charlie . . ."

"No, really, I get the picture. Oh, by the way, Dad went out for some fresh eggs. He asked me to pass on a message – he said not to leave before breakfast."

There was something odd about Charlie's demeanour which made Don exasperated and uneasy. Disappointment or anger he could comprehend but he had no time to deal with this. Charlie was watching him closely as if trying to gauge his reactions. Suddenly and quite bizarrely, Don felt like a specimen in a jar. He stared back at his brother, perplexed and frustrated, as he tried to gain a handle on things. But his brain was still fuzzy and clouded with fatigue – he didn't feel up to this right now.

"A message," Charlie continued as though talking to himself, a contemplative look on his face. "By classification, a signed, spoken, or written communication. Although, these days, the definition could be expanded to encompass the satellite and cyber highways. Data streams and micro-chips are valid means of exchanging information. And then you have the rhetorical question – can you convey a definite message with art? Or how about with architecture or symbolism?" He put his head to one side and considered. "Do you understand the concept of messages, Don, or perhaps you don't have the time?"

"Okay, I get that you're pissed off with me." Don spread his hands in defeat. "Maybe I'll drop by later and we'll try this conversation again. We took down a major arms deal last night and it's going to keep me pretty busy."

"Don't want to encroach on your time, Don." Charlie took another sip of his coffee. "Drop by if you can fit us in. If you can clear up a space in your schedule. Dad and I have gotten used to it. We know the FBI comes first."

"That's it, you made your point." Don got up heatedly, and then wished he hadn't, as the room took a tilt to the right. He steadied himself on the arm of the couch and glared down at his brother. For a sweet guy, Charlie could be pretty sarcastic if things didn't go his way. "If you want to take cheap shots, Charlie, try aiming a little higher. The Intel came in, I had no choice. I didn't want to let you down. Yeah, sometimes, it goes without saying, the FBI _has_ to come first – but that doesn't make it more important to me. It doesn't mean you and dad come second."

"You could have left a message at the restaurant." Now, at last, there was a flash of something like anger in Charlie's eyes. "It would have taken thirty seconds, a minute at the most. Don't tell me you couldn't find the time to do that? To make a thirty second call?"

Don frowned at this latest injustice but tried not to rise to the bait. His head felt stupid and clumsy, there was a chance he might say something he'd regret. "I _did_ leave a message at Salvo's." Heavy emphasis on the _did_. "You can trust me on that one. Are you telling me they didn't pass it on?"

"Not only didn't they pass it on, but dad made a point of asking. He actually checked with the floor manager to see if you'd phoned in. There was no record of any message from you. No evidence of any call."

There was a note of triumph in Charlie's voice which irritated Don beyond belief. He felt as though he was back in High School, making excuses for not handing in his homework. He regarded Charlie for a moment as the silence seemed to stretch on between them. While he'd guessed last night's absence would hurt Charlie's feelings, he hadn't figured quite how much.

"I left a message at Salvo's." Don repeated his earlier statement, and kept his tone low and even. "I'm sorry if, for whatever reason, you didn't get the call. Look, I'm taking a rain check on this conversation. I need to get back downtown." He paused, with a flash of guilt. "Charlie, you have to appreciate I'm going to be tied-up for a while. I'll try and drop by sometime this evening and we can sort this thing out, okay?"

"Okay, whenever you can fit me in. It's cool, I understand." Charlie shrugged his shoulders casually and took another sip of his coffee. "Don't disrupt your schedule solely on my account."

* * *

**Random Variable Numb3r Ten _(Eppes House (bathroom) – Day Two, 8.50am)_**

Don slammed the bathroom door extra hard, and tried to keep his temper in check. If he was honest, Charlie's attitude had thrown him. It was not what he'd been expecting. A quick, but heartfelt apology, followed by a truthful explanation. And, once the arms case had fizzled down, a conciliatory meal, on him. It was usually enough – it should have been enough. It was usually enough . . . _but was it?_

Had he simply been kidding himself? _Who was he trying to convince?_

After all, it had always been easy to hide behind his job. The FBI, national security – irrefutably and impressively important. No one questioned his dedication or queried his commitment to either. If he wanted a reason to get out of something, he just pleaded work obligations. And, in the main, he wasn't making excuses. The Bureau kept him pretty busy.

He usually ran on adrenalin. His case-loads were often back-breaking . . . his family and friends knew that. He had always taken consolation in the fact he was good at what he did. It wasn't much of a comfort zone but it allowed him to function successfully. Not for the first time, Don was filled with doubts. _Was he using the job as a shield?_

His head was aching and his midriff hurt. He barely made it to the wash-basin. Retching on an empty stomach was an awfully bad idea. For a while he slumped there, his head on his good arm, shivering as the tremors ran through him. After five minutes, he turned on the taps and rinsed out his mouth with toothpaste.

His reflection in the bathroom mirror shocked him. He was a horrible shade of corpse-white. Not something you'd see on the _Home Décor Channel,_ unless your surname happened to be Munster.

"_Excellent." _His tone was wry as he fingered the dark stubble on his chin._ "Not your usual, handsome self, Donnie-boy."_

That was a mild understatement. He looked like one of the un-dead. He would have to shape-up pretty quickly before he returned downstairs. His father would have apoplexy if he saw him looking like this. He would be lucky to escape from the house at all, without the customary, guilt-ridden lecture. Don made a slight face in the mirror. He wasn't sure he could brave it today.

_To be honest, he felt the way he looked. To be honest, he felt like crap. _

It wasn't so much his shoulder, although, that was sore enough. It was the aching throb in the small of his back which had gained in vicious ascendance. _'Bruising from the first blow of the crowbar,'_ he guessed, _'and the contours of the couch had not been kind.' _

Don removed his old T-shirt with difficulty and turned his back on the mirror. He craned his head over his shoulder and tried to check-out his reflection. It was no good – the act of twisting his neck put too much strain on his collarbone. He could barely make-out some purplish marks on the pale skin above his hips.

Don opened the cupboard over the basin, and ransacked it for some Tylenol. He breathed hard, with a sigh of relief, when he found two left in a bubble-pack. It was scarcely four hours since he'd taken the Vicodin but he didn't have time for any scruples. There was a busy day ahead of him and he couldn't function feeling like this. _What he needed was a cup – no, make that a pot – of his father's strong, black coffee._ By the time he left for the office, the Tylenol and caffeine should kick-in.

The tablets felt rancid in his tender stomach, but he needed to keep them down. Don did his best to ignore the burn as he clumsily lathered up his face. Shaving improved things a little, but he still looked like he'd stepped out of the grave. He turned up the heat as high as he could bear, and stepped in, under the shower. He flipped the shampoo lid with his teeth and single-handedly, washed his hair.

Don leant his forehead against the tiles as the water ran down over his torso. The heat was blissful on his aching back and took the sting out of his shoulder. Despite being late for the office, he let his body go boneless. For a moment, he succumbed to temptation and allowed his tired mind to follow suit. The soothing combination of water and warmth was simply too restful and comforting, but duty and workload nagged away at his conscience and Don gave a groan of resignation.

No good. He didn't have time for this. He should be on his way downtown. Don straightened up and turned off the water. _'Better pull yourself together, Agent Eppes.' _

It was odd he hadn't heard from Terry yet. Don was surprised she hadn't called him first thing with her customary offer of a ride. He stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel . . . for a moment, the world turned grey around him. Don gripped hold of the basin and found he was shaking, nauseous and desperate for air. It took at least another five minutes before he regained a clear head.

'_Was he stupid or just plain stubborn?_'

Don no longer knew the answer to that question. It had been going on for so many years, it was simply a way of life. Common-sense told him he ought to call Charlie, but something rebelled inside him. It was the familiar, childhood demon, which always whispered in his ear. The same intractable demon who insisted he go it alone, keeping him at arms length from his family until the shock of his mother's illness. He'd been listening to its voice for so long now; he barely even heard it anymore. The voice which had urged him to stay away until it was almost too late to come home.

As a child, he'd been forced to grow-up quickly. To become independent and strong. The younger Don got on with his life in the shadow of Charlie's limelight. The stoic. The rock. The protector. He'd resignedly taken on that role. Trouble was, he got used to assuming the mantle and it became the greater part of himself. The part who rarely asked for personal help - that hid injuries from his family. The part of him which shrugged and got on with things, surviving in his own, _detached_ way.

_Charlie._

His brother never handled it well if Don ever got hurt on the job. And after his behaviour this morning, Don was not in the mood to come clean.

No – he would borrow yet another shirt, and put in a call to Terry. He'd drink a pot of black coffee and try to choke down some eggs. Suddenly, Don needed to get out of the house. The urge to escape was paramount. To immerse himself in FBI protocol and the sheltering arms of his job - to sink down in the strands of the safety net he knew of old, they provided.

**TBC**

**Lisa Paris**

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	4. Chapter 4

**Random Variables and Heuristic Solutions**

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**Part Four**

**Random Variable Numb3r Eleven _(Eppes House (Dining Room – Day Two, 9.20am)_**

"Don not out of the shower yet?"

"Who knows?" Charlie shrugged, somewhat studiedly. "He doesn't usually inform me of his schedule."

Alan sighed, and turned to face his younger son. "I take it you two haven't spoken yet this morning?"

"We spoke. Sort of. Don just told me how busy he was. As usual."

"Charlie . . ."

"It's no big deal, dad. Better just leave it alone."

Alan came out of the kitchen to where Charlie stood at the dining table. "Did he tell you he was sorry - that he didn't have any choice?"

"Yes, sort of," Charlie repeated. He began stuffing term papers haphazardly into his rucksack. "And then he went and blew it by insisting he left a message at Salvo's. Why would he do that - you _did_ check with the floor manager, right?

"I did."

"Okay." Charlie nodded, unhappily. "You checked. I know you did."

"No, wait," Alan regarded him in bewilderment. "Something's wrong - I'm not getting this. There must be some sort of misunderstanding going on here. If there's one thing I know for sure about your brother, he would never tell you a lie."

"Wouldn't he?" Charlie looked up, suddenly, _angrily_, a fiery light in his eye. "Except for the many and varied times he's lied to us by omission." He put up a hand to stop Alan interrupting. "No, just listen to me a minute. How often has he walked in through the door hiding some sort of physical injury? And when does he ever come straight out and tell you, he's depressed, or he's had a lousy day?"

"Charlie . . ." There was a strange expression on Alan's face – unhappy and slightly guilty.

Charlie stared at him in dawning realisation, some unpleasant facts filtering down through his brain. "Dear God, I don't believe this." The stack of term papers scattered across the table and floated, unheeded, to the floor. "He _does – _Don_ does_ - talk to you about some of those things." Charlie began to pace the dining room in agitation. "Did he ask you to hide them from me, to treat me like a child? Or did you come to an agreement together? Let's protect poor, little Charlie. Poor, little, fragile Charlie. We both know he's not up to dealing with the nasty facts of life!"

"It isn't like that." Alan snapped. "Your brother rarely tells me anything about the cases he works on, but once in a while, he might confess that he's tired or admit he's had a bad day. Don's not like you, Charlie. He's a very private person. Getting him to talk about his feelings is like prying open a clam."

"A very, selective clam!" Charlie snorted. "You know what, Dad, he does the same with me. If I find out from one of his team he's picked-up a minor injury – _not that he'll ever tell me_ - he asks me to keep quiet about it. To keep it hidden from you. He doesn't trust either one of us. Not enough to really let us in."

"Oh Charlie, do you think I don't realise that?" Alan shook his head somewhat sadly. "Don does what he thinks is right, in his own way. He's trying to protect us both."

The ring of a cell-phone interrupted them. It was Don's, from his neatly folded pants. It stopped after thirty seconds or so and then the house phone rang. Charlie returned to the dining table and began to gather his scattered papers.

"Hello, Eppes residence?"

"Alan?" It was Terry Lake. "I tried Don's cell but it went straight to voice-mail. Is everything all right?"

"He's in the bathroom . . ." Alan paused, his paternal antennae on sudden alert. The conversation with Charlie had touched on a raw spot. "What do you mean is everything all right? Did something happen I should know about?"

Terry hesitated. "He must be feeling sore this morning. It's why I let him sleep in a little. Could you tell him I'll drop by in thirty minutes to give him a ride downtown?"

Alan frowned. A few butterfly sutures and a cut on the ear should not prevent Don from driving. "Terry, was he hurt last night? I mean other than the cut on his ear? He hasn't said anything this morning, but there must be a reason he's not driving?"

Charlie gave a muffled exclamation and pulled something out from under the table. It was Don's rolled-up FBI jacket with the shoulder-brace still tucked inside. He held it in front of his father's face like a silent accusation. It substantiated everything he'd just been saying - proof positive of Don's reserve and guilt.

"He broke his collarbone." There was a hint of resignation in Terry's tone. No matter what she said, there was going to be trouble. If, for whatever reason, Don hadn't told his family about his injury, she knew him well enough by now to realise he was going to be pissed off. She wondered if she should say anything else, sensing some undercurrents. No – it really wasn't her business to do anything but stick to the facts. "Nothing too serious, apparently. He'll just need to be chauffeured around for a while."

Alan nodded, and even down the phone line she could hear a trace of bitterness in his voice. "Thank you. It's nice to know these things. I'll pass on the message as soon as he's done. I'm sure he'll be ready and waiting for you."

* * *

**Random Variable Numb3r Twelve _(Eppes House (Landing/Alan's Bedroom – Day Two, 9.30am)_**

By the time he reached dad's bedroom, Don realised something was wrong. Not off, in the _lack of sleep/crappy night _kind of way, but really, _seriously,_ out of synch. He leaned up against the door-frame and tried to take a deep breath. Big mistake . . . the landing reeled around him and he broke out in a cold sweat.

'_What the hell was up with him?'_

His body ached mercilessly. Pulling the sweat pants on to go downstairs had been nothing short of a nightmare. Not just because his shoulder hurt, but because of his shaking hands. He made it into the bedroom and stumbled across to the wardrobe, grasping hold of the door knob and holding on tightly for dear life. The row of clean shirts blurred before him and he closed his eyes for a moment. The next thing Don knew, he pitched forward. He had almost fallen to the floor. He leaned his face up against the wardrobe door, the old walnut smooth against his cheek. It took a couple of breaths to clear his head and force the dizziness away.

'_Not good. This was so not good.' _

Don pulled out a clean shirt at random and made it across to the bed. He sank down on the edge of the mattress and fought to regain his balance. The sullen ache in the small of his back had turned into a vengeful monster. His belly felt hard and tight as a drum – must be something to do with all the barfing

'_Maybe if he sat here for a little while . . . he could pull himself together. It would only take a minute or two, and then he would be all right._'

A telephone was ringing somewhere downstairs and Don recognised the sound of his cell. It was followed by the more strident tones of the house phone and then the swell of voices raised in anger.

'_Dad and Charlie –_ _sounded like they were fighting. No, surely that couldn't be right?' _

He realised he was shivering violently - teeth chattering uncontrollably in his head. The room was dancing pirouettes around him. He slid off the bed onto the floor.

'_Sick . . . he was going to be sick again . . . his father was going to kill him.'_ More useless retching onto the William Morris rug, he tried hard to stop, but it was futile. Each heave ripped the lining of his stomach, but the torture went on and on.

'_Sorry about the rug, Mom.'_ Bizarrely, Don heard himself apologise. His mother had always loved this rug. He almost expected her to answer. Right now, she felt very close.

"Dad," Don figured it was time to shout for some help. Since when had his voice become so pathetic? He forced himself to try it again. "Dad - Charlie? _Anyone_!"

It was getting much harder for him to breathe and he was cold . . . so very cold. _'Shock,'_ he thought, vaguely, '_I'm going into shock._' He was still alert enough to categorise it. The first blow of the God-damned crowbar. It must have messed up something inside._ 'Kidney's,_' he remembered his anatomy hazily. Probably some kind of internal injury. _'Should have taken the EMT's advice and gone to the Emergency Room.'_

Nobody was coming up to save him. Typical – it was typical. The one and only time he asked for help. He might as well be wasting his breath. Alan clearly hadn't heard him calling, what with all the racket going on downstairs. _'No wonder.'_ He was yelling too loudly at Charlie. _'What the hell was up with that?'_

Don tucked his injured arm over his body and inched his way to the door. It was a journey of barely ten feet or so, but it felt like an epic endeavour. He pulled himself up by the doorframe and staggered out onto the landing, clutching hold of the balustrade tightly, when he made it to the top of the stairs.

"Dad!" He tried his best, he really did, but his voice was barely a whisper. The last burst of effort had sapped all his energy and there was little, if anything left.

Don's legs gave way beneath him and then he collapsed onto his knees. He slumped at the top of the staircase, afraid he was going to fall. At last, long last, there was movement below him. He heard someone call out his name. He lifted his hand in grateful acknowledgement but oddly, his arm wouldn't work.

Nothing seemed to work any longer. _His voice . . . his arms . . . his body. _All he was aware of now, were the terrible waves of pain. Pain which cut through his abdomen - pain which sawed across his back. Don curled into a ball to escape it. Mercifully, everything went black.

* * *

**Random Variable Numb3r Thirteen _(Eppes House (Downstairs) – Day Two, 10.00am)_**

Terry Lake's heart sank down into her boots as she pulled up alongside the curb. She normally parked in the driveway but it was clearly impossible this morning. The red and white bulk of an ambulance was already occupying that space. It was backed-up towards the open front door for quick and easy access to the house.

Her hands shook briefly as she cut the ignition. Somehow she knew without being told who the wagon was for. She was out of her car and across the lawn in seconds, ignoring a group of curious neighbours who had gathered by the gates to rubber-neck. She headed for the figure waiting just inside the door, and took a firm grip on his arm.

"Charlie? Charlie, tell me, did something happen to Don?"

He turned to stare at her blankly, his silence confirmation enough.

Terry took a deep breath and tried again. "Charlie, tell me what happened?"

Something flickered in Charlie's eyes and she felt him square his shoulders. "He didn't tell us, Terry. We didn't know anything was wrong. Don - he went for a shower. Dad and I . . . we heard him call out for help." He looked at her in confusion. "Don never calls out for help."

"It's all right." She spoke, automatically, but the words sounded meaningless. "His injuries aren't serious. It's going to be all right."

"No." Suddenly, Charlie snapped back to life and pulled away with anger. "No, Terry, it's not all right. We didn't even know he'd been hurt. He didn't tell us. Nobody told us. Don't you think someone should have told us? We are in-fact, Don's next of kin!"

"Charlie, wait - " she followed him through to the bottom of the staircase, aware of a flurry of activity taking place on the landing above. A ripple of alarm ran through her. She could tell by the sense of urgency that something was seriously wrong. It was not what she'd been expecting. Her feeling of dread increased. Terry could just about see Don's dark hair as an EMT supported his head. As much as she cared for Charlie, she didn't have time for this. Her hand was already on the banister - she had to know what was happening to Don. "Of course, you and your dad are listed as Don's next of kin, but he didn't seem seriously injured. I made sure he was seen by the medic's last night. They checked him out pretty thoroughly."

"So thoroughly, he has internal bleeding. So thoroughly, the EMT's say he's gone into clinical shock."

"I'm sorry." Terry pulled away from Charlie, and swiftly climbed the stairs. Alan Eppes turned relieved eyes to greet her from his position on the floor beside his son. She touched him briefly on the shoulder, and tried hard to curb her own fear; flashing her badge at the lead EMT as she gestured down at Don. "Agent Lake. Did they tell you he's a Federal Agent?"

"I understand he received these injuries last night?" The man nodded up at her tersely. He barely took time to look at her badge, before turning his attention back to Don. "I'd be interested to know who checked him out."

"What do you mean?" Terry frowned.

"I need to get this cannula sited while he still has any viable veins." The EMT ignored her for a second or two and spoke instead to his companion. "Let's get some fluids into him, stat. Then we'll scoop and run." He flicked his glace back up to Terry. "He should have gone to the ER last night. He's in severe clinical shock." He struggled to slide an IV port into a vein on the side of Don's wrist.

Terry stared in horrid fascination, her mind tussling with denial. "I don't understand why this has happened. He received two blows from an iron crowbar . . ." she heard Alan's smothered gasp beside her. "One which fractured his collarbone and another which barely scraped his ear. He seemed fine afterwards."

The EMT ran through a bag of fluid and watched as it started to flow. "Well, he's not fine now. There's bruising across his lower back and evidence of internal bleeding. My guess, he was struck at least _three_ times by a heavy blunt force instrument. _Someone_ got their wires crossed along the line. S_omeone_ oughta learn how to count!"

**TBC**

**Lisa Paris**


	5. Chapter 5

**Random Variables and Heuristic Solutions**

**Part Five**

**Heuristic Solution Numb3r One _(Eppes House (Downstairs) – Day Two, 6.00pm)_**

The house was warm and oddly silent when Charlie walked in through the front door. Dust motes danced in the shafts of evening sunlight which fell in golden bands across the polished floor. He avoided looking up at the staircase and carefully skirted around it, trying to bypass his memories of the morning as he walked through to the living room.

He heard Terry back out of the driveway and was glad he had sent her away. He had too much to think about, too much to process; her company would have been a distraction.

_(The volume of human blood in an adult male body equals approximately 5.6 litres or 6 quarts. The adult, human heart pumps at a rate of about 4 to 5 litres per minute. That's 280 litres in one hour. 7200 litres in 24 hours or 2688000 litres per year . . . _

_Under stress or during exercise, the blood flow can be quadrupled to between 15 and 20 litres per minute. The pulse rate of someone going into circulatory shock becomes weaker and thready in nature . . . speeding up from the average of 72 beats per minute to between 100 and 120 beats per minute as the heart struggles to compensate._

_The loss of 1litre of blood produces moderate shock. The loss of 2 litres will cause extreme, hypovolemic shock, which will endanger life. The loss of 3 litres or more is usually fatal.)_

Don had bled out almost two litres into his abdominal cavity. One of the blood vessels supplying his right kidney had been ruptured by blunt force trauma. He'd been bleeding progressively ever since, a steady, continuous loss. His condition becoming more critical, as each minute, each hour ticked by. _Bleeding . . . bleeding steadily . . . slipping slowly into clinical shock._ Hurting. Hurting and feeling ill, and not saying a damned word to anyone.

Don's FBI jacket lay crumpled on the table, the discarded shoulder-brace next to it. Their presence was like a silent accusation – a terrible reminder of the morning's events and their ghastly aftermath_. Don's condition was critical. _He was still in the OR. Whisked out of their sight and away from them, the minute they'd reached the hospital.

Charlie could vaguely recall the waiting room and the gentleness of Terry's voice. He remembered the sharp scent of antiseptic and the glare of the overhead lighting. They had sat there for hours, too numbed to talk, drinking endless cups of disgusting coffee. Charlie had worked out the number of dots on the _Seurat _print on the wall. Impressions . . . smells and voices, numbers and pointillism. The abiding image which haunted him most was the grief in his father's eyes.

Charlie took a deep breath and discovered his hands were shaking. He looked down at them in bemusement, a part of him almost expecting to see them stained red with Don's blood. He'd been angry – so very angry this morning. And hurt, sarcastic and cruel. There had been a definite side of him which had relished punishing Don. _'He'd wanted . . . he'd wanted . . . to get a reaction.'_ Charlie cried out loud in frustration._ 'To break down his brother's walls.'_ To rock those imperturbable, _'Don foundations'_ and get some sort of emotional response.

Unfair. Charlie knew he'd been unfair. When Don was relaxed and not under stress, he was a warm, affectionate man. Kind and always demonstrative, he was easy-going and fun to be around. Charlie sat down on the edge of the sofa and buried his head in his hands. Was it really only last weekend, they'd gone to the golf course with dad?

To say he and golf did not get on was a minor understatement. He'd been on the verge of packing it in, until he'd spoken to Don. A perceptive comment from his elder brother had given him pause for thought - had made him aware of other variables to factor into the equation. It wasn't about winning or excelling at golf, but about spending time with his father. Not about being a prodigy at everything, but about learning something from dad. It had taken Don to point that out, to understand what was important. Instead of pondering the variants or calculating the math, Don concentrated on the human angles and accepted what made people tick. It was why he inspired respect from his team and what made him such a good leader.

Charlie knew it was a gift he didn't always possess, an insight he failed to shine at. He was a funny, brilliant teacher with a breathless passion for his subject, but it wasn't so much about the students as the ability to enrich them with knowledge. Not so much about the people, as the beautiful stream of numbers in his head.

Charlie wondered how much had passed him by during all the years Don was away. Don recognised how people felt – but he couldn't articulate his own feelings. Perhaps that was why people, who didn't really know him, accused him of becoming detached. Or rather, whyhe – _Charlie_ - had accused Don of being detached. No wonder Don had gotten so angry. No wonder his eyes had gone blank. With a quick flash of insight, not unlike his brother's, Charlie understood the reason why. It wasn't about detachment, it was simply about survival. About standing firm under onslaught, the erosion of weathering tides.

What would it take to calculate the _Impact Strength_ of Don Eppes against the world?

The shrill ring of the telephone sliced through the empty silence. Charlie starred at it in terror and got slowly to his feet. "Hello?" His voice was barely a whisper. _'They said it was okay to come home for a while, to fetch some things for dad . . . they promised me they would only ring if anything got worse . . .'_

"Mister Eppes?" The voice was jovial and not one he recognised at all. "Good evening, Sir. My name is Mario Avigo, I'm the Maitre'd at_ Salvo's_ restaurant. Your party ate here last night - I hope you enjoyed your meal?"

"Yes." Charlie's knees sagged from under him as he held onto the phone for dear life. He found he could hardly talk to the man, let alone comprehend what he wanted. "Yes?"

"I'm calling to apologise for not passing on a telephone message. The member of staff who took it down was forced to go home ill. She didn't remember until this evening, and is, of course, mortified." The floor manager paused, and cleared his throat, as though hoping for some acknowledgement. He waited a moment, and then continued, when it failed to come. "It was a message of apology from a Mister Don Eppes. He sent his regrets but was unable to join you due to an emergency at work. He said he would try to see you later and hoped you had a good time. As do we _all_ here at _Salvo's."_ The man cleared his throat again. "And, in light of this unacceptable mistake, I'd like to send you some complimentary dinner vouchers."

"Don left a message," Charlie whispered. "He left a message just like he said."

"I hope there was no inconvenience? There is, of course, no time limit. Just mention the vouchers the next time you make a reservation." Pause. "Sir?"

"Yes. Thank you." Charlie put the receiver back in its cradle and sank slowly down to the ground. He felt like his heart was breaking.

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**Heuristic Solution Numb3r Two _(Intensive Care Unit - UCLA) – Day Two, 8.00pm)_**

Even the lighting in the unit was subdued, like everything else about the place. The sounds were muted, the décor restrained, staff and visitors spoke with hushed voices. '_Did the quiet rule apply whatever the circumstances?' _Alan Eppes wondered, bleakly. _'What happened if he sat down and wept like a child – if he howled his pain out loud?'_

He didn't, of course. Instead, he obediently followed the nurse to the cubicle containing his son.

"Mister Eppes?" The surgeon met him at the door-less aperture and took his proffered hand. "Doctor Ian Goldberg. I operated on your son." He gestured towards the clock on the wall. "I hope they've been looking after you – that was quite a long haul for all of us."

"Please – how's Don?" Alan had no time for inanities. He felt mentally exhausted, shell-shocked. He just wanted to see his boy.

"Of course." Ian Goldberg nodded with complete understanding. He came straight to the point. "As you know, Don lost a large amount of blood . . ."

The explanations went on for quite a while and Alan frowned at the technical details. _Hypovolemic shock, failing circulation, ruptured renal vein. _Words, semantics, medical-speak. He only wanted to hear about Don.

". . . the surgery went successfully and we did a good repair job on the vein. I'm hopeful any damage to the kidney itself will heal now we've re-established perfusion – it's quite a resilient organ. We'll need to monitor renal function carefully over the coming weeks . . ."

"You managed to save his kidney?" The relief stuck in Alan's throat.

"Yes." Ian Goldberg smiled briefly for the first time. "At the moment, it's looking that way. I'm still speaking with relative caution – Don's not out of the woods yet. The blow he received caused massive trauma, but due to the exact nature of the injury, Don was able to function relatively normally for some hours afterwards. Actually, the kidneys are rather well protected so he was unlucky to say the least. He had what we call a slow bleeder, not so obviously dramatic. But, perhaps more deadly, for precisely that reason." The surgeon shook his head. "A blow like that should have been checked-out. We could have caught any problems much earlier and saved ourselves a whole lot of trouble."

"Don's stubborn but he's not stupid." Alan knew it was crazy to defend him, paradoxical and against the grain, but he wanted this doctor to understand why Don had not reported the injury. "He's dedicated to what he does, takes his responsibilities seriously. My son is very good at his job, but I sometimes worry he carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. There was a difficult case, it was late at night. He . . . we'd had a bit of a family upset . . ." He floundered, unable to continue, unsure why he had even started. _'Another form of shock,'_ he supposed, _'of the non life-threatening variety.' _He looked up at Ian Goldberg's sympathetic face and sighed. "He should have told someone about it. Should have told us how much he was hurting."

There were gentle explanations of tubes and ventilators, preparing him for more visual upset. But when he entered the cubicle, Alan was still ill-equipped for the sight which greeted him. Don had always been pale-skinned, despite being an Angelino. It was part of his legacy from Eastern European ancestors, and a hand-me-down trait of his heritage. _Pale-skinned_ did not begin to describe the lack of colour he was now. Translucent was probably more accurate, transparent or see-through would suffice.

Alan swallowed and approached the bed. This was the moment he had always feared. His worst nightmare made incarnate. His son, his precious, older son. He'd come so close to losing him. This morning's row with Charlie came back to haunt him with a vengeance. '_Don had lied to them by omission_.' Was it purely as straightforward as that? _'Don found it hard to trust them.' _Or, by depending on his self-reliance over the years, had they simply forced him into silence?

Don the strong one, Don the stoic. So capable of taking care of himself. Uncomplicated and easy going, he had simply got on with growing-up. Both he and Margaret, especially Margaret, had fought so hard for Charlie's needs. They had made tough decisions and sacrifices to provide for Charlie's education, relying on Don to understand, to recognise his brother was special.

_Special._ Alan discovered he was shaking as he bent down to kiss his son. How to define _special_ . . . the word was suddenly complicated. Like beloved and cherished, more valuable than his life, priceless and above rubies. The word had more than one meaning – implied more than he'd previously supposed.

It came to him now with stark simplicity. In two, short syllables_. "Donnie?"_ It was strange how, here, in such unnatural surroundings, the childhood name came so easily to his lips. _"Oh, Donnie, I'm so sorry, my son. I should have noticed something was wrong with you. I should have seen how much you were hurting."_

There was no response, of course. Don lay white and unmoving. There was a scarcely a single part of him that wasn't host to a wire or tube.

Alan was glad when the doctor made a tactful withdrawal, when the nurses departed quietly after bringing him a chair. He sat beside his beloved son under the subdued lighting, clutching onto Don's hand for dear life as he wept silent, subdued tears.

**TBC**

**Lisa Paris**

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	6. Chapter 6

**Random Variables and Heuristic Solutions**

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**Constructive feedback gratefully received and responded to. I value and take note of your comments.**

**Random Variables and Heuristic Solutions**

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**Part Six**

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**Heuristic Solution Numb3r Three _(FBI Offices – Los Angeles – Day Three, 31st October, 9.30am)_**

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Merrick regarded her across his desk. "What happened, Agent Lake?"

Terry looked back at him steadily and took her time before answering. She'd tortured herself with the very same question throughout the previous night. Instinct had urged her to stay at the hospital but common-sense had prevailed. Don was on a ventilator – he would not be waking any time soon. Instead, she'd returned to her apartment, to the silent reproach of empty rooms. To the unwatched _Pride and Prejudice_ DVD, on the coffee table just where she'd left it.

"Agent Eppes and I were in pursuit of the seller. Don took the lead and I backed him up." She halted at the irony of the words and corrected herself slightly. "I was _supposed_ to be backing him up."

"And then?"

"Don was approximately twenty yards in front of me. The suspect was fifteen yards in front of him. I temporarily lost sight of both of them when they headed around the corner of the warehouse. When I rounded the corner myself, Agent Eppes was lying on the ground."

"Where was his weapon?"

"He'd lost his gun. It was out of reach. I noticed it was several feet in front of him."

"Continue." Merrick continued to study her non-comittally. She couldn't tell by his expression which way this interview was panning out.

"Don was laying face-down on the ground. The suspect was standing over him with an iron crowbar raised in his hand. It was the same crowbar he'd used to open the weapon crates when the deal was going down. At this point, I assumed he'd ambushed Don as he rounded the corner of the warehouse."

Merrick nodded thoughtfully and scribbled some notes on a pad. He cross-referred them to her written report and wrote down something more. "Did you actually see the blow which felled and disarmed Agent Eppes?"

"No." Terry swallowed and shook her head. "I did not. By the time I got there, Don was already down. The seller had raised the crowbar again. It was clearly his intention to strike Don over the head."

"Think very carefully, Agent Lake. What was your next action?"

"I challenged him," she spoke without hesitation. "Told him to step away from Don and place the bar down on the ground."

"And did he?"

"No. He remained where he was, the crowbar raised, and seemed to hesitate for a moment. Don spoke to him at this point and advised him to do as I said. I repeated the challenge over again and told him to lie face down on the floor. I think, perhaps, he considered it then, but chose to take his chances instead."

Merrick nodded and skim read some more of the documents in front of him. "It says here in your report - '_the suspect then swung the bar with intent towards Agent Eppes' head.'_ That's what happened?"

"Yes, Sir." Terry remained composed. "That's exactly what happened. I fired three rounds as soon as I realised the suspect had not complied as ordered. Agent Eppes managed to roll to one side but the bar still grazed the side of his head."

"That ties in with Agent Eppes' report." Merrick actually sounded pleased. "Three rounds grouped within a six inch radius right over the suspect's heart. That's excellent shooting, Agent Lake. I'd say your intent was pretty clear?" Merrick's voice was dry.

"So was his," her answer was definite. "It was a righteous shoot, Sir. He intended to kill Don."

"So, the only time you saw the suspect strike Agent Eppes was when you fired three shots at him?"

"That's correct." Terry didn't like where this was going. "Once the suspect had been neutralised, I checked on Agent Eppes injuries. My immediate concern at that moment was whether he'd been struck across the head. He informed me he'd been struck on the shoulder; he thought he'd heard his collarbone crack."

Merrick leaned forward in his chair. "And he didn't refer to anything else, didn't mention receiving any other blows? Think very carefully, Agent Lake, you're absolutely sure about this?"

"I'm sure." The words seemed to stick in her throat as she went over the scene by the warehouse. She should have questioned Don more thoroughly. Hell, how long had she known him? It had been hard enough persuading him to let the EMT's check him out, let alone do anything else. Boss or no boss, she should have insisted he go to the Emergency Room. Whichever way around she looked at it, she felt like she'd failed him twice.

"You and Agent Eppes have known each other since Quantico?"

She looked up sharply at Merrick's question. "Yes."

"And I wouldn't be wrong in saying the two of you are close?"

"We're partners," she answered, levelly. "As such, we often depend on each other to stay alive."

"It's a commonly held idiom among law enforcement officers that they're closer to their partners than they are to their spouse." Merrick was watching her directly as he spoke, trying to gauge her reaction.

Terry felt a spark of anger. How dared he play amateur psychologist? She resented his implication, whilst at the same time, wondering if he was right. Don's life had hung in the balance – she'd acted without thought or feeling. She would have done the same for any other agent – would have relied on her professionalism and training.

_Don's life had hung in the balance . . ._

The thought caused a pang of misery. There was no '_had'_ about it. His life_ still_ hung in the balance – was hanging by a fragile thread. Was she partly to blame for that? There was no doubt she had made a contribution. She'd failed to uphold her end as Don's partner, not being there at the crucial moment when he'd needed her to cover his back. And then, she'd been complicit in the aftermath of it all. She'd merely taken his word for it when he'd told her everything was okay. It hadn't felt right. She could acknowledge it with hindsight. There'd been a sense of misalignment. She'd ignored a feeling of creeping unease that something was a little off key. She understood Don well enough by now to know he would deny any problem. She was a forensic psychologist, for God's sake.

_But more than that, she was his friend._

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**Heuristic Solution Numb3r Four _(Intensive Care Unit - Waiting Room – UCLA – Day Three, 31st October, 6.00pm)_**

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". . . those are all the details I can give you." Terry reached for Alan impulsively, her fingers resting on his arm. "There'll be an investigation because Don's injuries are so serious. Until the reports have been verified and considered, they have to remain confidential."

"I see." Alan frowned. "Let me try and get this straight, I'm having trouble with this. Don didn't mention he'd been struck three times and the EMT's who examined him didn't pick it up?"

Terry lowered her eyes. "I'm sorry. By the time I reached him, he was already down. I only saw the suspect hit him once. He told me about his collarbone afterwards - I assumed that was the blow which took him out."

"I don't believe this!" Charlie was furious and frightened as he turned accusingly towards his father. "This is exactly what I was talking about the other morning. _Exactly, what I meant._ Don and his damned _Superman_ syndrome. Just who does he think he's protecting? What are the collective odds of this entire sequence of events?"

"It was a series of random variables, Charlie. Or maybe it was plain bad luck."

Terry noticed how easily Alan slipped into a mathematical vernacular. It was so peculiar to this family that even Don did it on occasion. _Don._ She sighed. "The EMT's treated his shoulder injury and butterflied the wound on his ear. There was no sign of concussion or any other serious problem." She paused, and looked at them honestly. "Perhaps his back wasn't hurting him then or he disregarded the first blow. Don was pretty wrapped up in the case. He blamed himself for the loss of the dealer."

"You mean the man who tried to kill him!" Charlie spun away from them and began to pace up and down the room. "The man who beat him with an iron bar. The man you shot to save Don's life."

"Yes," said Terry, uncomfortably, guilt surfacing all over again. If she hadn't let Don get so far ahead of her . . . if she'd done her job and backed him up properly. _There were too many ifs and onlys._ She wasn't sure about random variables, but she knew all about professional incompetence, and she definitely recognised bad luck.

"It's not your fault." Alan regarded her with perception. "You know Don would be the first to say that? In-fact, he'll probably blame himself for running-on ahead."

Terry nodded. She felt tired and wrung out. "Thank '_you'_ for saying it."

She looked up into Charlie's eyes, unsurprised by the anger which remained in them. The professional side of her took over now as she tried to profile his behaviour. His manner had been most un-Charlie-like ever since her brief précis of events. It was as though he'd received confirmation of something; he vibrated with suppressed resentment. Usually, when he was worried about Don, he became distant and almost catatonic. This conduct was something different and she had a fairly shrewd idea why.

"Charlie," her voice was soft. "We were busy from the minute the Intel came in. It all went down pretty quickly. Don had to focus entirely on taking charge of the job. All that excess adrenalin can be seductive. Sometimes, it's the only thing that keeps us up and running."

"I know the effects of adrenalin, Terry."

"Charlie!" Alan shot him a heavy frown.

"It's all right." She continued to look at Charlie, trying to smooth things out for Don. "Don was in charge of a vital operation. There was more than just the safety of his team at stake. A successful result meant the potential to save a lot of civilian lives. Don wouldn't be stupid intentionally – he has a lot of responsibilities. Unless he was bleeding or out on his feet, he would have hardly considered his injuries."

Charlie shook his head mulishly, but his eyes told another story. It wasn't all that hard for her to see the terror which lurked just below the surface. "I don't understand why it's so difficult, Terry. He has other important responsibilities. Responsibilities to dad and me – responsibilities to his family." His voice wavered perilously for a second and he took another turn about the room. "So much has happened between us. It - it's too late to fix the past. I want to learn how to be there for Don_ now_, but he has to meet me halfway."

**TBC**

**Lisa Paris**


	7. Chapter 7

**Random Variables and Heuristic Solutions**

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**Part Six**

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**Heuristic Solution Numb3r Five _(ICU – UCLA – Day Three, 31st October, 9.00pm)_**

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Someone had left him a newspaper, but he wasn't making very much headway. The lights were dim in the cubicle and it was impossible to concentrate. Alan shifted awkwardly to ease his aching back. He'd reached the decision all hospital chairs had been designed by some kind of sadist. Perhaps it was a devious way of making sure visitors didn't linger. At least Terry had taken Charlie home again. He'd been badly in need of some rest.

Charlie . . . Alan frowned. To be honest, he'd heaved a sigh of relief when his younger son eventually departed. Charlie's strange behaviour had left his nerves a little ragged – more than a little frayed round the edges. To quote Tennessee Williams, Charlie had been acting like the proverbial _'Cat on a Hot Tin Roof!'_

It was easy to work out why, of course. He was getting much better at understanding Charlie. Ever since his wife had died, he had been forced to work harder at it. Funny - Margaret had always been able to read her younger son like a book. She had never been as successful with Don. Alan sighed and glanced over to the bed.

_Don. _

Neither of them had been particularly successful with Don. _Not if the truth be told._ Don had been successful with Don. And for that, Alan was eternally grateful. Hindsight might be a wonderful thing but it wasn't always comfortable. Rather like the hospital chair he had no intention of leaving tonight.

There was no change in Don's condition. He was still on the critical list. His body lying in limbo – in the twilight zone between life and death. Now, why did that sound so familiar? Alan's brow creased with remembrance. What was it his mother always used to say? Some superstitious, hocus-pocus, from the _'Old Country.'_ Something about the _'in-betweens'_ being a place where the veil is thin?

Sunrise and sunset, the mystery of evening. The spaces in-between day and night. She had never let them linger in doorways or window sills, so-called_ 'thin'_ dimensions, where people believed time itself could stretch and then contract. _"You're neither in one place nor another," _he recalled her words in his head. It was an Eastern European thing, he supposed. And like so many of the Old World superstitions, it had travelled across the Atlantic and ended up along way from home.

Alan laid the newspaper down on the locker. His eyes lingered for a second on the date. It was the 31st of October. He had forgotten all about Halloween. A feeling of unease settled over him. If ever there was an in-between, it was here and now, right in this room. There was a sense of unreality about it all – he felt like he was living in a dream.

_Better make that a bad dream come true. Or, even worse, a living nightmare._

Alan gave a heavy sigh. Years ago, when Don had been nine or ten, the two of them had researched a school project on the origins of Halloween_. Amazing how it came back to haunt him now_ – he made a slight face at the pun. He'd had no sense of warning or foreshadowing. It had been a mere curiosity back then.

Tonight was the last day of October. It was a definite, _in-between._ A space between one month and another and a cross-over between the Christian festivals of All Hallows Eve and All Saints Day. It was also a time between autumn and winter, the end of the old Pagan calendar. A time of dying and introspection when the whole earth held its breath. The trees, the crops, all of nature itself, was fallow and awaiting rebirth. Hence the tradition of honouring the dead on a night when the veil was thin.

Alan gave an involuntary shiver. He glanced over at the modern technology which was keeping his son alive. The beeping machinery and flickering lights reassured him in more ways than one. _Foolish._ He was being a foolish old man, remembering all the old stories. There was no place less flooded with superstition, than here, in the heart of modern LA. Nonetheless, Alan reached across to the bed and placed his hand firmly on Don's arm. The compulsion to remind Don his place was here, among the living, was suddenly, very strong. Alan needed to anchor him securely on earth. To keep him, safely, with his family. He held onto him tightly, just in-case Don had other ideas.

The pale skin was smooth and marble-cold to the touch, so still and unlike his son. Alan's uneasiness grew stronger and he found he was up on his feet. He hesitated and reached for the call-bell, the feeling of dread increasing. Every neurone in his body screamed out at him – something was terribly wrong. It was with no surprise and a sense of almost calm inevitability that he heard the first alarm go off. Within seconds, the cubicle was filled with a riot of sound as the monitors began flashing red.

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**Heuristic Solution Numb3r Six _(Terry Lake's Apartment – Day Three, October 31st, 10.30pm)_**

Terry shivered and pulled her cardigan tighter around her. She was surprised how cool her apartment felt. Or maybe, it wasn't so much the apartment as the chill which had settled through her body. Part of her was tempted to phone the hospital again - one last call to check on Don's condition. Although, rationally, she knew there was no real need. She would soon hear if there was a problem.

She looked at back at her computer and re-read the words on the screen. Four, concise, little paragraphs. Succinct and absolutely to-the-point. They mocked her with their brevity, with the wealth of omission beneath them.

'_Who had she been kidding?'_

It was inevitable – _had always been inevitable _– from the moment Don had moved back to LA. Some profiler she'd turned out to be. Not even able to profile herself or had she just been going through denial?

Merrick's words came back with a vengeance. _'It's a commonly held idiom amongst law enforcement officers that they're closer to their partners than they are to their spouse.'_

What had he seen in her eyes? Despite all her attempts at obscuring her emotions, somehow, her feelings must have shown. The words on the screen went blurry as she reached for her glass of wine. _Chianti,_ red and rough around the edges. She welcomed its rawness on her tongue.

The irony would have been funny if it hadn't almost turned deadly. If Merrick – a man not usually known for his stunning grasp of human character - had noticed something, the whole office must be wondering about the nature of the relationship between her and Don. The only person with no idea how she felt was probably Don himself.

She thought she had been so professional – had deliberately tried to distance herself. If anything, he was even more attractive now, then he had been when they were dating. Seeing him again after all these years had made her realise a spark still burned. Don was a caring and tactile boss and it was hard not to fall into old patterns. How often had she blamed a heavy workload to avoid spending time in his company? How many lame excuses had she made to try and keep her feelings under wraps?

When she'd rounded the corner a few yards behind him and seen him face down on the ground . . . Terry took another gulp of wine. The terror had been indescribable. Her world had begun to shatter like glass until he had shifted slightly. It was only then, when she'd known he was alive, her training had reasserted itself.

She ran a shaky hand through her hair. Her world was still irrevocably broken. Whether or not Don recovered from this, she knew she never would. She was his partner – she should have covered his back. She hadn't been there when he needed her.

Terry wasn't stupid – she knew it wasn't solely her fault. Don could run a lot faster than her and he shouldn't have gone so far ahead. _Not the point._ It wasn't the point. A tear slid down her cheek. She was forced to face an inescapable truth. _After all this time, she still loved him._ There it was, out in the open at last. She had confessed the words to herself. In-spite of ten years and a broken marriage, she was still in love with Don Eppes.

_And knowing that, accepting that, she couldn't remain in LA. However skilled or well-trained they were, they risked their lives every day. One small mistake could make a big difference - she wouldn't be the cause of his death. _

It was hard enough when she had been in denial, but now she had admitted her feelings, Terry knew it was impossible for her to stay on Don's team. It wouldn't be fair on either of them, especially not on Don.

She swallowed down the last of the wine and looked at the empty bottle. She usually stuck to a two glass max. but tonight the circumstances were exceptional. Tonight, she wanted to get very drunk – tonight she was allowed some excess. Her hand reached across for the computer mouse and she gave it a single click, waiting for the whir of the printer as it churned out her_ 'Request for Transfer' _letter.

**TBC**

**Lisa Paris**

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	8. Chapter 8

**Random Variables and Heuristic Solutions**

**Part Eight**

**Heuristic Solution Numb3r Seven (_ICU - UCLA – Day Four, 7.00am)_**

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He shouldn't have come back to the hospital so early, but there was no point staying at home. Not when the house was silent and filled with reproachful ghosts. He hadn't realised it was Halloween until some children had come trick or treating. Dad usually bought a bag load of candies to hand out at the front door, but Charlie hadn't found much to give them, just a few, left over apples from the fruit bowl. After that, the night had unsettled him. Sleep had been hard to accomplish. In the end he had gone to the garage and spent three hours working on numbers.

Charlie left the elevator and walked into the ICU. The place was subdued and quiet, its customary oasis of calm. As usual, he was struck by the irony of it. The place was paradoxical. In every one of the cubicles around him, there was a desperate struggle going-on. People fighting to stay alive and their loved ones frantic to hold onto them.

_Most importantly, his brother. Most importantly, Don. _

Was it his imagination, or did the nurse at reception look up at him oddly? She rose from her chair as he wandered past and hurried around the desk.

"Mister Eppes, I'm sorry. You can't go in there just now. Please take a seat in the waiting room. Someone will come and talk to you shortly."

Charlie felt his heart constrict as he saw the sympathy in her eyes. "What's wrong . . . where's my father . . . what happened?"

"Mister Eppes - "

"No – let me go, I have to see Don!" He pushed against her and started forward, single-minded in his need to see his brother. The fear which had nudged at him all night long was rearing its head with a vengeance.

_Don._ _Oh, God, Don!_

"Charlie!" It was his father's voice. "Charlie, it's all right, I'm here."

"Dad!" For a moment, everything lurched around him - his legs all but gave way. Then suddenly, his dad was beside him, and he took strength from Alan's face.

"It's all right. Thank you. I'll take it from here." Alan nodded at the hovering nurse. He led Charlie into the waiting room and sat him down on a chair. "That's it, easy, Charlie. Take a deep breath for me." He held on to his youngest tightly as he waited for him to calm down.

"Where's Don? What happened . . ." Charlie found he could hardly speak.

Alan took a few seconds to reply. "Your brother decided to create a bit of a fuss - to keep us all on our toes. He . . ." Alan sighed. "There's no easy way to say this. Donnie's heart stopped beating. Charlie . . . no, Charlie . . . it's all right now. The doctors brought him back. You know how stubborn your brother is – he fought his way back to us again!"

"Mister Eppes?" Doctor Goldberg poked his head around the door and took in the situation at a glance. "Don's latest results just came in. Everything's looking stable now and there shouldn't be any more problems."

"Why did his heart stop?" Charlie whispered, pain and confusion on his face. "You were worried about his kidney . . . why his heart, I don't understand?"

Ian Goldberg perched on the edge of one of the chairs. "It's a sneaky little side-effect of the extensive blood–loss Don suffered. Although we're replacing the volume of blood, he's still short some important electrolytes. In simple terms, hypovolemic shock upsets the balance of potassium in the body, which in turn, affects the function of the heart. We have to replace it carefully and monitor his cellular levels closely. It can be just as dangerous to give too much, too quickly, as it is not to give enough."

"But these latest blood tests," Alan struggled to get to the gist of things. "These latest tests show he's going to be all right? His heart won't be permanently damaged?"

"Don's got some way to go yet, but he's responding better now." Doctor Goldberg rose to his feet again and offered him his hand. "His heart should be fine once we've corrected the problem and restored his fluid and electrolyte levels. His output's increased a little, so at the moment, his kidney's doing okay. That was quite some night you've had, Mister Eppes. I'm prescribing a meal and some sleep." He yawned, and smiled ruefully. "In-fact, I think I'll write myself the same script. Unless the nurses call me, I'll drop by later in the morning."

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**Heuristic Solution Numb3r Eight (_ICU - UCLA – Day Four, 9.00am)_**

Charlie kept his eyes on the monitors, terrified in case they changed. Despite Ian Goldberg's reassurances, he was still scared stiff for Don. He had forgotten to bring his briefcase with him but that was beside the point. There was no way he could work on term papers after the events of the last two days. It was tempting - _so tempting_ – to give into the numbers which threatened to rampage through his head. To submit to the safe world of patterns and reason where things happened in order and sequences.

There was no pattern or reason he could apply to Don. No sense of applied logic. His brother had always been a mystery – a variable and unknown factor. Ever since they were children, Don had been his anomaly. An equation he was no closer to solving today – just as unfathomable to him as the infamous P v NP.

Kind Don, cool Don. Don growing ever more distant. The Don who would fight all his battles for him, while keeping him firmly at arms length. His brother had protected him willingly, but never really let him get close. Charlie gave a heavy sigh. All his life, he'd wanted more. To understand Don better. He had tried his best to communicate that, but Don always pushed him away. _Or had he?_

Charlie tried to be honest with himself. To look at things from a different perspective. Maybe – _just maybe_ – he'd played his own part in driving a wedge between them. He had spent his whole life safely cocooned in the bubble of his genius. Nurtured, protected and cosseted by his parents. Especially, by his mother. He had taken their support for granted; secure in the knowledge and freedom he could explore his outstanding abilities.

From the time he was approximately three years old, his mother had devoted her life to him. They had spent hours pouring over books together as she helped him cultivate his mind. She had taken him for academic tests and assessments and attended his private tutorials. Until he went to High School, she had been his constant companion. Never once, in all that time, had he wondered if Don resented losing out on her attention. Life had been full and all-consuming as Charlie embraced his learning. He had always sought Don's approval but never envied his way of life.

Where had Don been during this time?

Disappearing off to school on the bus and immersing himself in baseball. It had always been dad – very rarely, mom - who had gone to watch Don play. And only then, if things had been quiet and he could afford to take an afternoon off work.

Don had been surrounded by heaps of friends, people he hung-out with. The cool kids, with back-to-front baseball caps, and testosterone-filled arrogance. Later, there had been plenty of girls coming in and out of the house. They had distracted Charlie from important homework as they giggled and flirted with Don, peeping at his muscles from under their eyelashes while he and his group of buddies showed-off and swaggered in the yard. They made the rooms smell of strawberries and perfume and drank all the juice in the refrigerator. Charlie pretended not to notice as Don smuggled them upstairs to his room. He had tried not to listen to the muffled laughter or the irritating squeak of Don's bedsprings.

And then Don was gone. Away from the house without a backward glance as he set out on his own again. Except this time, he would not return for supper every evening – bolting his food in less than ten minutes before going out with his friends. This time, he left home for ever, heading off on a baseball scholarship. An odd, disquieting silence had fallen over the craftsman house. When Don played his music loudly, it had gotten on Charlie's nerves. It was hard to concentrate on his numbers when the _Pixies _or one of Don's other favourite bands was wailing at full volume in his ears. But it was strange how unsettling the stillness was, once his older brother had gone. Charlie had asked for a pair of headphones to help him concentrate through the hush – using the music to shut out the quiet left behind by Don's absence.

It was not all that dissimilar to the quiet which surrounded them now. Charlie dragged his eyes away from the monitors and forced himself to look at Don properly. It was hard to come to terms with seeing his brother like this. Even harder, when he remembered the tone of their last conversation. He had virtually accused Don of lying about leaving a message at _Salvo's._ Charlie's breath caught, slightly, as he acknowledged a painful truth. Don's non-attendance at either studio or restaurant had translated from hurt to a need for reprisal. He'd wanted to punish his brother – to show him how let down he felt.

One of the monitors blipped temporarily. Charlie's heart jumped into his mouth. He'd been so angry – so upset with Don – but he'd never wanted . . . never expected . . .

_Dear God, he was so afraid to see Don looking like this._

The green light settled back into an even rhythm and no-one came into the cubicle. Charlie's own pulse-rate steadied when he realised nothing had changed. Don was so private, so self-contained. Even here, in the indignity of a hospital bed. His handsome face was surprisingly sensitive when seen in quiet repose. Despite lying naked and helpless, he still seemed aloof and unreachable.

Charlie reached out tentatively and stroked the back of his brother's hand. He was surprised and relieved at how warm it felt compared to the last time he'd touched it.

_Don had collapsed at the top of the stairs and time had contracted like a nightmare. Charlie was barely aware of hearing his dad cry out in dismay. He stood still, staring up at the landing, his body frozen with shock. Alan's yelling brought him to his senses, at least enough to dial 911, but everything else was a blur of terror as he focused obsessively on Don. _

_Don, so white . . . so dreadfully still. Don, so cold and silent. Charlie remembered taking his hand and almost recoiling in horror. It was strangely heavy and lifeless, icy to the touch. Usually strong and sinewy, his brother's hand was like that of a corpse._

_Charlie had been so sure Don would die. It was his fault, he'd created this. Like some sort of voodoo spell or sympathetic magic, he'd conjured-up a form of ill-will. He'd wanted to punish his brother and fate had granted his wish. It was stupid and totally irrational and the logical part of him had known it – but as the terrified part of him held Don's, cold hand, it had not seemed quite so far-fetched. _

_He had been really tempted to let go of his brother. To drop the hand which felt so alien. The cool immobility had frightened him, made him feel light-headed and sick. He hadn't, though . . . at least, not until the EMT's arrived and shouldered him out of the way. He'd gripped hold of his brother for all he was worth, trying desperately to keep Don with him. To prevent him from slipping away for good, and leaving Charlie to the silence forever. _

Charlie gathered Don's hand gently into his own and curled his fingers around it. A tiny smile touched the edge of his lips as he thought of Don's reaction. If Don could see they were holding hands, he would make a wiseass comment. Probably something about Charlie needing to get out more. Or maybe, he would threaten to collar Amita and have a serious talk about 1+1 equals 2. Of course, Charlie would subsequently explain to him that 1+1 didn't always have to equal 2. Then Don would roll his eyes with a shrug and say that was exactly his point.

Well, what Don didn't know, wouldn't hurt him. Just for now, Charlie needed the contact. He clung on firmly to his big brother's hand, reassured by its warmth and latent strength. This time, he would hold on to Don for as long as he possibly could. Somehow - _between them_ – they would have to mend things. To apply their own _Heuristic Solution_. A way of coming to terms with the past by exploration and trial and error methods.

There was no straightforward answer to their problems. Charlie realised that. No algorithm or fixed set of rules which would dovetail things neatly into place. Don was a private, complicated man, who was used to dealing with pain. They would have to take things slowly and determine to respect each other's space.

'_Well, all right, I can learn to deal with it,'_ Charlie took a deep breath. _'So, come on, Don, it's down to you. You have to recover from this.'_

Charlie didn't think he believed in God - there was no mathematical basis for doing so. But paradoxically, he found he was praying. _He prayed for his brother to live. _

**TBC**

**Lisa Paris**

* * *


	9. Chapter 9

**Random Variables and Heuristic Solutions**

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**Part Nine**

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**Heuristic Solution Numb3r Nine _(FBI Offices – Los Angeles – Day Six, 9.30am)_**

"I'll keep this short and to the point, Agent Lake." Merrick regarded her frankly. "The information we gathered after last week's operation turned out to be very valuable. Last night, Washington made some arrests and we severed some big links in the financial chain. I think we can congratulate ourselves on scoring a major success."

"You mean the information Agent Eppes gathered." Terry responded, forthrightly. "Don will be relieved to hear it when he regains consciousness properly."

Merrick nodded and shifted in his chair. "Any news on that?"

"They've stopped sedating him so heavily; he's been on assisted ventilation. They're hoping to wean him off the machine sometime later today."

"Good. That's good." Merrick actually sounded happy about it. "Eppes is an excellent team leader and a first-rate operative. I've been keeping tabs on his condition via hospital administration, but they don't tell you any of the details, just the usual, meaningless clichés. I didn't want to impose on the family until things were looking more optimistic."

Terry relaxed her shoulders and revised her opinion a little. Merrick might be insecure about Don but at least he had the grace to be honest. "I'm sure Don's family won't mind hearing from you. They're remarkably generous people . . ." to her dismay, her voice faltered slightly. _'Pull yourself together, Agent Lake!'_

"With regard to the incident at the waterfront," Merrick was all business again. "The details in your report correspond with everything Agent Eppes submitted in his initial statement that night. As far as I'm concerned, Agent Lake, you did things by the book."

"And Agent Eppes?"

Merrick dropped his eyes. "I'll need to discuss that with him. _When _he's recovered, of course."

"He did good that night." Terry wouldn't let it alone. "He didn't report his injury because he didn't think it was serious. He was too busy doing his job. You know what his record says, Sir. Don's the most dedicated agent I've worked with. He's totally committed to what he does but he's not reckless or irresponsible. He doesn't take stupid or dangerous risks. Not with his team or himself."

"He disregarded basic protocol. He should have reported that injury. I understand why he might not have done so, but it doesn't alter the fact."

Merrick rose up out of his chair to indicate the interview was over, but Terry had one last thing to do before she vacated his office. She took the envelope out of her jacket and placed it down in front of him. Merrick paused for a moment and nodded his head without touching it.

"I think I know what this is. About those things I said the other day . . ."

"I'm requesting a transfer back to Washington." Terry forestalled him quickly. "For personal reasons. You're aware my husband's there?"

"I was aware of that." Merrick sat back down at his desk and looked at her closely, understanding, and even a hint of sympathy in his eyes. "I don't foresee a problem, if this is really what you want – but I hope you've considered it thoroughly. There'll be a period of notice, of course, and if you should change your mind . . ."

"Thank you, Sir, but I've thought it through." Terry interrupted him firmly. It was hard to convince herself this was right without Merrick attempting to persuade her to stay. "It's the right time, both professionally and personally. I'm not going to change my mind."

Merrick picked up the envelope. "I'll be sorry to lose you, Agent Lake."

* * *

**Heuristic Solution Numb3r Ten _(ICU – UCLA – Day Six, 2.00pm)_**

"It's all right, take it easy. Just keep taking nice, deep breaths." Someone placed their hand on his shoulder and spoke to him like he was a child. "That's it. That's good. I want you to stay nice and calm and keep breathing in and out."

For once, Don was happy to do as he was told_. 'Hey – it wasn't like he had much say in things.'_ He was content enough to lie here and let them get on with stuff – there was no place he had to be. Besides, he didn't really have any energy and from what he could tell and feel under the sheet, he most certainly wasn't wearing any clothes. Don opened his eyes and blinked several times, waiting for his vision to focus. He lay quietly and watched with docile curiosity as people busied themselves around his bed.

"Hello there," a tall man spoke to him softly. "It's good to see you awake."

Don nodded back at him equably – he seemed a pleasant enough sort of guy.

"Can you tell me your first name?"

The man smiled down at him and Don frowned in mild surprise. _'What – he was here, they were talking. So how come no-one knew his name?'_

He wrinkled his brow, and tried really hard to fight through the fog in his brain. Something had obviously happened to him – something he ought to recall. Something to do with Charlie and Einstein and a bunch of crazy mathematicians . . .

"Can you hear me okay?" The man was speaking again, his words laced with a touch of concern. "I'd like you to concentrate very hard and tell me your first name?"

'_Anything to put the guy out of his misery.'_ Don forced himself to use his poor throat. "Don . . . name's Don Eppes." Ouch. '_That really hurt.'_ His throat felt as though it had been slashed with a chain-saw. Either that, or he'd been snacking on broken glass.

"That's great, Don." The tall man beamed down at him. "Really great. Now, how about your brother? Can you tell me his name too?"

Don's eyelids were getting heavy again, but what the hell, anything to oblige. Anything to keep them happy and then he could go back to sleep. "Einstein," he murmured, with a tiny smile. "Charlie Einstein Eppes."

"I heard that," whispered a voice beside him. "Always the funny guy."

"Hey, Charlie – s'good to see you, bro." Don forced his eyelids back open.

"Good to see you too."

Charlie was smiling – Charlie was crying. Something was wrong with this picture. He'd been late for somewhere – or he hadn't turned up. '_He'd upset Charlie again.' _"Sorry . . . didn't get to Salvo's . . ." Don struggled with muddled memories. With the fragments of flotsam and jetsam which jostled for place in his mind. "Missed out . . . linguini."

"I got complimentary vouchers," Charlie's voice was soft. "We'll go again when you're well."

"Throat's sore." Don said, querulously. "Throat's sore. So damned tired."

"Your throat will be sore for several days," the tall man told him, frankly. "We'll try you on some crushed ice later. It's not linguini, but it will help."

Don was finding it hard to concentrate. Everything was still too blurred. He wondered what drugs they had him on. The world was hazy and edged with yellow. There'd been Salvo's . . . but he hadn't made it. He could vaguely remember a bust. An iron bar – he'd hurt his shoulder – throwing-up on his mother's favourite rug . . .

'_Damn, that wasn't good.' _He could just about remember thinking dad was going to be pretty pissed off about that one.

"Donnie?"

It was his father's voice and he didn't sound fed-up. Maybe because Don was sick. "Sorry . . . about the rug, Dad." '_Why was it so hard to talk?' _He made the most of the sympathy card – why quit when he was ahead?

"I'll send you the dry cleaning bill." Was his father crying too?

Something was definitely off here. Don rolled his head on the pillow and made a heroic effort to stay awake. Antiseptic – he could smell antiseptic and the faint whiff of anaesthesia. That meant he was in a hospital – which wasn't all that terrific. '_God, his throat hurt like it had been cut._ _Why did his throat hurt so badly?'_

The memory rose up suddenly, crashing over him like a wave. '_A tube . . . there was something stuck in his throat . . ._' and restraining hands pressing down on his shoulders. He remembered bucking against them when he realised he couldn't breathe. He was retching . . . retching and choking for air . . . surfacing from underwater. Don panicked and his hand flew up to his neck, terrified it would happen again.

"Easy, Donnie." It was dad again, sounding as frightened as he was. "Take it easy, it's over now. They took the tube away. Just keep on breathing for me, son."

His dad's hand was gentle on the side of his face, and the softness of his voice was reassuring. Someone placed an oxygen mask over Don's mouth and nose. He struggled hard to regain control but his muscles shook involuntarily. Everything was blurry and weirdly out of synch. '_What the hell had been happening to him?' _Don felt frightened and exhausted – about as strong as a newborn lamb.

"Try to relax, Don." It was the tall doctor. "You've been heavily sedated for the last few days and your body's still recovering. We'll give you something to stop the tremors but you need to slow your breathing down. You've just gone through what we call _Emergence._ It can be quite a frightening experience. When we take you off the ventilator and you start breathing consciously for yourself. It's been likened to coming around after drowning, so you're going to feel strange for awhile. Good. That's better." Goldberg nodded. "Other than your throat, are you in any pain?"

Don shook his head slowly. There was no pain anywhere else. Just an overwhelming sense of bewilderment. It was like waking up after a nightmare. Whatever those drugs were, they were good. _'Wait – a ventilator? He'd been on a ventilator?' _

'_Crap – no wonder dad and Charlie had been crying – had gotten all emotional over him. No wonder dad had forgiven him for barfing on mom's favourite rug!'_

"Dad . . . Charlie . . ." Don tried to reach for his father's hand but the tubes and wiring got in the way.

"It's all right, I'm here. We're both here. Your brother and I aren't going anywhere."

"Glad." Don couldn't help sighing with relief. He was starting to slide away from them but there was something important to be said. It occurred he didn't know what had happened to him yet – _he hoped it wasn't going to be a problem._ He had a feeling there might be plenty of time to re-hash the gruesome details later. But for now, better say what he had to say, before he fell asleep. "Sorry didn't tell you . . . was tired. Been a long day. Didn't want to worry you."

He thought he heard Alan heave a sigh of resignation, but it might have been the sound of his own breathing. It was hard – so hard – to concentrate on anything, but he still felt an uneasy sense of guilt.

**TBC**

**Lisa Paris**

* * *


	10. Chapter 10

**Random Variables and Heuristic Solutions**

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**Part Ten**

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**Heuristic Solution Numb3r Eleven _(Private Room – UCLA – Day Ten, 5.00pm)_**

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"Hey, Charlie." Don shifted awkwardly, and opened his eyes. He reached behind him for the head-rest control, and discovered it had slipped onto the floor.

"Here, let me." Charlie passed it over, and then settled down in the hospital chair.

He scrutinised his elder brother carefully and decided to avoid any of the usual _bedside _banalities. Don still looked pretty awful, putty-coloured and drawn. There were shadowy rings beneath his eyes which spoke volumes all by themselves. Charlie had never been one for small-talk. It was a futile exercise, in his opinion. There was no point saying Don looked better until it actually happened.

He sighed. "Did you see Doctor Goldberg today?"

"He dropped by early this morning. He seems happy enough with me."

"Everything's still okay with your kidney – no problems with renal function?"

Don grimaced as he elevated the headrest and raised himself in the bed. "He booked me in for a scan tomorrow. I can probably go home on the weekend if everything's working properly."

"You mean home with dad and me."

"Yeah." Don gave into the inevitable with a small sigh. "I mean back to the house with you and dad."

"Gee," said Charlie, with a touch of asperity. "Don't pretend to be happy about it. Having you around all grouchy and uncooperative isn't going to be a picnic for us, either."

"Charlie - "

"No, really, Don. The last couple of weeks have been pretty tough. You think we like seeing you like this? Dad's aged about ten years overnight just because you felt the need to act tough. Too stupid and stubborn to take medical advice – to take proper care of yourself. Big, bad, _Superman Don_. Well, this time, you ran up against some kryptonite. You could have died. You almost did. You have no right to do that to us."

It was like someone had given Charlie a poke with a stick and unleashed all his latent anxiety. He opened his mouth and the words tumbled out. A torrent of reproach and fear.

"I know. I'm sorry. Charlie, listen to me – I really didn't think there was a problem. It was like," Don sought a mathematics analogy as he tried to diffuse Charlie's anger. "Like a random concurrence of bad luck. There must be some math term for it?"

"In this case, we'll call it simple probability." Charlie regarded him sourly. "Emphasis on the _simple._ First off, you should have told Terry you'd been hit three times with the crowbar. Then she could have informed the EMT's and they would have examined your back. You increased your odds of serious injury because you failed to follow medical advice. Those odds shortened even further when you neglected to tell us you'd been hurt." Charlie fidgeted around in his chair, his whole body tense with agitation. "Don - the variable factor in this whole equation boils down to one thing. _You!"_

"Thanks." Don's voice was dry. "Nice to know I can be boiled down to a variable." He gave a sigh of frustration. "Look, I wish it was all as simple as you seem to think it should be. It was a _heat of the moment_, adrenalin thing. I didn't exactly have time to worry about how many times I got hit." He raked his good hand through his hair. "It was my shoulder that hurt, not my back. That didn't come until later. You think I like what happened, that I wanted any of this?"

"Don," there was a hitch in Charlie's voice and the suspicion of moisture in his eyes. He appeared to be searching for the right words to say, or maybe, the most succinct way of saying them. "Because of what you do for a living, dad and I face the prospect of losing you. Every time you walk out the door, there's a chance you _might_ not come back." Charlie was almost whispering now, as he sought to clarify his emotions. "That fear will always be_ Certitude_ - a subjective consequence of our feelings. As opposed to the logic of _Certainty_ which states you definitely _won't_ return. The reality is different and we both understand that. Otherwise we'd be basket cases."

Don frowned. Charlie's words made him feel uncomfortably guilty and also slightly resentful. Of course, he understood how dad and Charlie felt about his job, which was why he tried to shield them from the worst of it. The craftsman house in Pasadena was his own particular sanctuary. A refuge at the end of the day, where everything was always the same. A place where Charlie was surrounded by text books and dad fussed about in the kitchen. Somewhere he could go to relax or unwind when he desperately needed a break. Don knew they worried about him. It was tacitly unspoken. The last thing he wanted was a blow-by-blow, post mortem, every time he walked in the front door.

He sighed, and looked directly at Charlie. It was obvious some explanation was needed. "I understand what you're saying, bro, but nothing's written in stone. That's where training and experience are important – the support of an excellent team. Good leadership and faith in my ability, to - to keep the risks down to a minimum."

"Exactly." Charlie pounced on his words. "You're saying it's all about faith and trust. Trust in you and the people around you. In the knowledge you're good at your job. But, don't you see, that element has to extend both ways for it to work at all?" Charlie's voice wobbled a little. "_You_ have to trust dad and me with the truth. You have to believe we can handle it. Just as we trust you to stay alive . . . to walk back in through the door."

There was a loaded silence between them. Don shifted uncomfortably in the bed. His mind was filled with painful images of the days just before and after mom's death. Charlie in the garage with P v NP. Dad barely coping with his heartache. And Don himself, reticent and taut with grief, doing his level best to keep control. A lot had altered between them since then. They had changed and grown as a family. Three men coming from different places to meet somewhere in-between.

_What was that old story Bubbe had told them, something about the in-betweens?_

Don racked his brain to remember it. Something about the in-betweens not being a good place to be? Well, maybe in this case, the old story was wrong. Superstitious stuff and nonsense.

"I do trust you, Charlie," Don spoke the words and discovered with some surprise, they were true. Now they were doing the honesty thing, he had to give credit where credit was due. Of all of them, perhaps it was Charlie who had transformed himself most in the elapse of time since mom had died. "It's more a case of how _I _deal with stuff, rather than anything to do with you. I see things which are bad enough without having to keep going over them. It's not about being secretive or detached . . ." _there it was, that crappy word again._ "It's about coping with bad stuff on a daily basis and trying my best to stay sane."

"I just wish," Charlie broke off, unhappily. "I just wish you really were _Superman_. Bomb-proof – iron bar-proof – invulnerable to any kind of harm. I wish you could promise you'll always be safe. I guess I want guarantees."

"Hey, buddy," Don's reply was soft. "There _are _no guarantees. Not for any of us, Charlie, regardless of what we do. It's like I said that morning, sometimes, the FBI has to come first. I may not like it, but I have to accept it. It comes with the territory. Just so long as you realise, you and dad are more important."

"I was out of order that morning. I wanted to punish you." Charlie was rambling now. "It wasn't just about Salvo's . . . it was a lot more complicated than that. Did dad tell you they called me the day you collapsed, to apologise for losing your message? After the way I treated you. All the things I said."

"I know." Don's voice was still gentle. "Don't beat yourself up over it. I should have said something about being hurt, but you're right, I was being pig-headed. I was pretty bad-tempered with both of you, and feeling guilty about missing your evening. I guess it brings us back to the random concurrence. A combination of crazy events." He grinned, trying to lighten the mood a little. "Hey, Charlie - with regard to the whole _Superman_ picture." He shook his head and made a face. "_Blue tights and red underpants?_ So _not_ my fashion thing."

Charlie remained distracted. "If I'd been less egotistical, and more observant. My God, you looked like crap. It should have been obvious something was wrong, but I was being angry and selfish."

"Hey," Don spoke, indignantly. "I _never_ look like crap. Trust me on this one, buddy, there's no point going over it again. We've both got some regrets, but it's done. I'm fine." He gave a wince as his wound tugged. "Or, at least, I will be. Remember, bro, trust and faith."

"Yeah," Charlie gave him a tremulous smile of relief. "You have to promise me, Don. Trust and faith."

* * *

**Heuristic Solution Numb3r Twelve _(Eppes House – Day 20, 2 .00pm)_**

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Don didn't know whether to be relieved or worried when Merrick came to the house. Charlie was lecturing at CalSci and Alan had gone golfing with Art. He was by himself for the afternoon – the first time they'd trusted him alone. He'd been relishing the thought of his own company when he heard a car pull up in the driveway. Don had a pretty sound idea what the visit was going to be about. There was no-one to interrupt them – it was as good a time as any to bite the bullet.

"You look a lot better than the last time I saw you." Merrick had visited him at the hospital just after he'd left the ICU. "You've made a fast recovery. It's good to see you up and around."

"Good to _be_ up and around." Don sipped a glass of water nervously and wished the man would get to the point.

"I'm sure. Your prognosis was in doubt for over forty-eight hours. You lost a hell of a lot of blood, Don. It was a difficult time for your family and friends. There was a time we thought you wouldn't make it."

"That's something I sincerely regret." Don shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Merrick certainly wasn't pulling any punches. He wondered which category, if any, the Assistant Director considered himself in.

"And something which might have been avoided if you'd followed Bureau procedure."

"_Might_ have been avoided." Don answered, levelly. "There are no guarantees with this type of injury. No way of knowing for sure I was bleeding, unless they gave me a scan. Unlikely, considering I wasn't in that much pain at the time."

"Tough son of a bitch, aren't you, Eppes?" Merrick's mild tone of voice belied his words.

Don gave a sardonic smile. "Goes along with the territory. Makes me good at my job."

"It does." Merrick nodded and smiled back. He reminded Don a little of a shark. "And you _are_ pretty, damned good at what you do, Agent Eppes, which is why I'd be pissed-off to lose you. Especially because of something so trivial as not following basic protocol."

It was hard to miss the double entendre. Okay, Merrick was serving a warning. But Don was honest enough to admit he more than deserved the rap across the knuckles. If one of his team ever ignored an injury, he knew he would go ballistic. It was decent of Merrick to make this informal, instead of hauling his ass downtown.

"Thanks – I think." He exhaled with relief and felt his muscles relax. "I've heard enough from my family on this particular subject to last me a dozen lifetimes."

"Listen to them – it's good advice. They don't want to lose you either." Merrick studied him evenly. "I'm not going to make this formal, Don. It wouldn't serve any good purpose. Just so long as you understand the potential mess if you _had_ died. The Bureau would have been forced to open an inquest which would have distressed your family even more."

"Thank you." Don was genuinely grateful. Maybe he'd underestimated Merrick. In-light of the difficult circumstances, the man was showing remarkably good sense. "Trust me - it won't happen again."

"There won't be anything official on your record." Merrick continued smoothly. "But I'll be evaluating things very closely when you're cleared to return to work."

"It's understood. I appreciate it." Don nodded in resignation. It was no more and much less than he'd expected. In the scheme of things, he was amazingly lucky.

_Well, almost. _

"A team is only as good as its leader." Merrick delivered his punch-line. "So, from now on, you'll treat yourself with the same degree of responsibility you would afford any member of your team. This means passing a Psych. evaluation before you can return to active duty."

_Could have been worse._ Don had the grace to agree. He would have done the same in Merrick's shoes. He hated Psych. evaluations with a passion, but their purpose was undeniable and vital. "I'd do the same." He admitted, reluctantly. "Don't want to set my team a bad example."

"It's regrettable news about Agent Lake." Merrick changed tactics suddenly. "A profiler of her calibre will be hard to replace, but I do have some candidates in mind. I expect to have appointed someone by the time you return to duty."

"Yeah."

Don didn't want to think about life without Terry. She was so totally, one-hundred per cent, behind him, it would take some adjusting to her loss. He wished her every happiness and the reconciliation she hoped for. And if part of him wanted to ask her to stay – he set that part very firmly aside.

He found it unexpectedly hard to answer and was forced to clear his throat.

_The damned tube . . . after all this time. His voice was still slightly hoarse._

"I'll be very sorry to lose her."

More sorry than Merrick could ever know. Sorrier than Don would admit to anyone. Especially not to Terry herself.

**TBC**

**Lisa Paris**

* * *


	11. Chapter 11

**Random Variables and Heuristic Solutions**

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**Email constructive feedback gratefully received and responded to. I value and take note of your comments.**

* * *

**Part Eleven**

**Heuristic Solution Numb3r Thirteen _(Salvo's Italian Restaurant – Day 40, 8 .00pm)_**

It was Thursday night in downtown LA, and the evening was relatively quiet. _Salvo's_ restaurant was already two thirds full, a testament to the quality of its food. Don held up the menu in his good hand and pretended to scan it for a minute. In reality, it was a waste of time. He knew what he wanted to eat. Besides, as much as he hated to admit it, he just needed to sit and relax for a while in an attempt to recover his composure. The car ride had left him a little shaky. He still felt so damned tired. Barely five weeks since the fiasco had happened – Don felt about ten years older.

A day or two after he'd woken-up, Don had collared Ian Goldberg. He'd waited until dad and Charlie had gone and then demanded all the gory details. Goldberg hadn't pulled any punches with him, right down to the part where he had died. _Twice_. Once in the ambulance, apparently, and again in the ICU. The second time, the kicker being, it was right in front of dad. No wonder Charlie had freaked out on him – had been frightened and so full of anger. It was probably why dad looked so haunted. Why his hair seemed a shade more silvery when he sat underneath the light.

_One blow from a stupid crowbar. _

Don couldn't expect to bounce back from this. His body had been too battered. However much he might have played hardball with Merrick, it_ was _his own fault for being stubborn. For ignoring the fact he was _not_ indispensable and hiding behind the job. The consequences had been a disaster. He had almost paid the ultimate penalty. But the reason he felt so guilty was because he'd hurt Charlie and dad.

Don knew it was going to take some time. He just had to be a little more patient. As hard as it was, he was forcibly grounded and would have to put up with the frustration.

"So," Alan peered at him over the menu. "As you don't appear to have read a single word, I take it you already decided?"

Don gave a reluctant grin. "Guess I already did."

"Let _me _guess," Charlie was pretty sure of himself. "The statistical probability of you choosing seafood linguini must be . . ."

"Pizza." Don folded the menu, decisively. "Peppers, pepperoni and ham. Heavy on the mozzarella."

Alan chuckled and shook his head while Charlie stared at Don, dumbfounded.

"Wait – we come all the way to Salvo's - my treat, by the way, and you decide you want pizza?"

Don shrugged, and put his menu down on the table. "That's what I'm saying, I want pizza. Been thinking about it all day. And besides, you told me you got vouchers. Vouchers,_ incidentally, _because they messed up _my _phone-call, so you could argue this one's on me."

"That's the worse case of fuzzy logic I ever heard." Charlie rolled his eyes. "Your phone-call was merely a random variable in an entire sequence of events."

His voice faltered suddenly at the memory of that evening and Alan jumped in hurriedly. He was clearly enjoying the banter, and didn't want past events to cloud things.

"Now hold on a minute, Charlie, I think your brother may have a point. We wouldn't have received the complimentary vouchers unless they'd forgotten Don's call."

"Oh, Man," Charlie shook his head with resignation, and decided to quit at this point. It would be easy to argue Don into oblivion but his heart just wasn't in it.

Even now, just over one month later, Don was still pale and washed-out. The planes and angles of his face were shadowed, accentuated by the darkness of his eyes. Tonight, he was wearing a black silk shirt. He didn't fill it quite as well as he used to. The severity of the fabric against his skin threw him into sharp relief. In the soft glow of the candle-light, he looked almost gothic, like he'd walked straight out of the pages of _Bram Stoker._

The waitress interrupted Charlie's train of thought as she brought their wine to the table. He noticed her eyes stray over to Don – _gothic vampire, or not. _

It didn't take long to give her their order and Don stuck to his decision. '_Maybe pizza wasn't such a bad idea,' _Charlie thought, with a little hindsight. Don needed the extra calories. A little more meat on his bones.

"A toast -" Alan filled all their glasses with _Barolo._ He even poured some into Don's.

"Wait a minute, you're allowing me alcohol?" There was the hint of a smile in Don's sarcasm. "It must be some occasion, if I finally get to come off the wagon."

Alan ignored him and raised his glass. He looked across the table at his sons. "This year, for obvious reasons, we missed out on a proper Thanksgiving." He cleared his throat hastily as he nodded at Don, a suspicion of moisture in his eyes. "I think we need to rectify that omission. This year, perhaps more than any year, this family has a lot to give thanks for."

"Hear, hear," said Charlie, firmly, his own gaze locked on his brother.

"To us, and mom." Don's voice was soft and a little bit husky. "The family, Eppes." The wine glowed ruby in the candlelight as he lifted his glass in a toast. "Because, in the end, it's all about family, right?"

"Yeah," said Charlie. "It's all about family." He looked across at his brother and acknowledged the private salute. Don had said those self-same words to him on another, poignant, occasion. "To us all, the family Eppes."

Both Charlie and dad had tears in their eyes as their glasses met with a ring of crystal. Don took a mouthful of the very good _Barolo_ – his own weren't entirely dry. Another year in California. Another year spent with his family. There was a time when he wouldn't have thought it. When he wouldn't have considered coming home. And yet, here they were, the three of them, all mushy and sentimental with each other. Don knew, right then, it was special. He wouldn't have it any other way.

It was so damned easy to break things. Especially things which were fragile. The events of the last month had reminded them of that. Had brought matters too close to home.

One blow from a stupid crowbar.

_It had almost broken his life. _

When Don thought of the upset and potential damage, it still made him feel acutely sick_. Death or the loss of a kidney. A grief-stricken, Alan and Charlie. His team in tatters – an FBI inquest. _All of it - it had so nearly happened.

All down to a series of arbitrary quirks, the random interference of chance. When fate decided to mess with your life, it had the power to turn things upside down. Don sighed. He was avoiding something big. The fact that Terry was leaving. It was the one, irrevocable, result of this mess that Don knew he still had to deal with.

He didn't want to think about it tonight.

The waitress brought the food to the table and blushed prettily as he gave her a smile. _'Way to go, Eppes,' _he thought, ironically. _'You still got it, you can still get 'em – it's just the keeping them that's hard.'_

Don looked at the size of the pizza and felt his stomach shrink. There was no-way in a million years he'd manage to eat the whole thing. He'd be lucky to get through a miserable third, the way his appetite was. On the other hand, he had to force some of it down. Dad and Charlie still worried about him.

"I think Don's regretting the linguini." Charlie wouldn't leave it alone. "Although, perhaps we should have asked for turkey, seeing this is Thanksgiving by proxy."

Don looked across at his father and grinned. Charlie had walked right into it. Alan rolled his eyes expressively - this one was too good to miss.

"We already got us a turkey, bro." Don drawled, as Charlie took a huge bite of food. "He's gobbling his way through some garlic bread. Even now, as we speak."

"Hey!" Charlie feigned indignation and pointed towards Don's lean abs. "I'm not the one who needs fattening-up. Turkey is, as turkey does."

Don smiled at him complacently and gestured across to the waitress. "It's called the lean and hungry look – and the ladies seem to like it."

"Yeah, right." Charlie retorted. "You look like you just flew in from Transylvania – _in-spite of the broken wing. _She was probably wondering whether to bring you a pint of blood or put some extra garlic on your pizza."

"Yeah? – Probably trying to figure out a way to sink _her_ teeth into _my _neck . . ."

Alan snorted, and listened with half an ear, as the insults flew back and forth. He truly had a lot to be thankful for – he meant it with all his heart. The reality of Don's brush with death remained hard for him to deal with. He still woke up at night in a tangle of bedclothes with his eldest son's name on his lips.

The surreal march of days and nights when he'd prayed for a miracle in the ICU. The implacable feeling of terror that time Don's heart had stopped beating. Alan knew those things would haunt him forever. There was no exorcising this particular ghost. Just when he thought he'd comes to terms with Don's job, life had taught him a salutary lesson. One, perhaps, he should already have learned when Margaret was snatched away.

He would never take his loved ones for granted again. Today, did not guarantee tomorrow. They had just about survived this ordeal intact, but nothing was carved in stone. All the more reason to make the most of what of they had. To live for, and enjoy, every moment. Alan took a mouthful of his veal parmigiana and determined to do just that.

_Because, in the end, it was all about family._ His older son was absolutely right.

"Hey," he brushed the remnant of moisture from his eyes and interrupted his bickering offspring. If life was going to carry on as normal, it may as well start right now. "Did you boys decide on dessert?"

**THE END**

**Lisa Paris - 2006**

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